


Claimed

by cjulina



Series: Claimed [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Claimed verse, Collars, Cullen Has Issues, Dom Cullen, Dom/sub, Drug Withdrawal, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mages and Templars, Magical Bond, Mind Control, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, NSFW, POV Cullen Rutherford, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reluctant mage, Samson is an evil bastard, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow slow slow burn, Slowmance, Threats of Violence, Wet Dream, so does Evelyn, sub Evelyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 90,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjulina/pseuds/cjulina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years before the mage rebellion the Chantry issued a new mandate.  Any apostate captured by the Templars would be subjected to one of three sentences:  Death, Tranquility, or Claiming.  If Claimed, a mage is forever tied to the Templar, forced to his will and whims, becoming little more than chattel.  This is the tale of Cullen Rutherford and the mage which circumstance forced him to Claim.</p><p>Tags will be updated as story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - Threatened violence and description of rape.

Artwork by KuraNova.

 

 

Cullen Rutherford, Knight-Captain of Kirkwall, pulled his horse to a stop as the scout approached him.

"Another false trail. It continues another quarter mile and then stops. I don't think our prey is in the area."

He gave a harsh sigh. He was weary, drained to the point of exhaustion. If not for his orders, Cullen would have issued the command to return to Kirkwall days ago. With Meredith now a statue of red lyrium, the city-state's Chantry decimated, the free-will mages throughout Thedas declaring their independence, and rampant insubordination rippling through the Order, his presence was needed in the ravaged city. He would try to keep the weave that was Kirkwall from unraveling further. He could grapple all the separating threads of leaderships and, through determination, through sheer force of will, he would bind and tie the strands together, keeping the city from descending into broadening chaos. _If only ..._

If only Seeker Pentaghast had not issued him specific orders: track and capture Marion Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall or, failing that, to detain the dwarf Varric Tethras. He had silently added the directive to execute the mage Anders, the man solely responsible for the turmoil now threatening all of Thedas, should he have the good fortune of cornering the murderer.

Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck as he scanned the nearby hillsides. He had a more than passing knowledge of the area and knew that there were, pocketed nearly everywhere, caves and grottos which would allow his prey to stay concealed with little fear of discovery. Only a methodical and exhaustive search would have any chance of ferreting out his targets if they were still in the vicinity. Hawke was intelligent, devious, and desperate. A lifetime of living as an apostate had taught her how to elude even the most persistent trackers. He wouldn't be surprised if she had laid a seemingly false trail and then squirreled away to a comfortable cave, cautiously waiting until her pursuers moved their search to another area.

 _Plus there's someone out there_. His years as a Templar had sharpened his senses as finely as all the sword training had strengthened his muscles. He _knew_ there was someone out there, looking down from a vantage point. It could be nothing more than a shepherd drawn to the remarkable sight of a dozen Templars combing the countryside or it could be Hawke determining if her would-be captors fell for her trick.

Cullen looked up at the sky, noting that sunset was but a few hours away. Raising his voice in case the observer was the elusive Hawke, he addressed the other Templars. "It seems we have been fooled yet again. We'll make camp here tonight. Tomorrow we'll move our search to the west. Samson, take two others and see if you can hunt down some dinner for us. I'm sure we'd all appreciate something more than hardtack and moldy cheese for our sup." There was a quiet mumble of agreement from the squad as Samson pointed to two others before heading away from the group. "The rest of you start setting up camp."

He dismounted and dug through his saddlebag for the map of the region. Cullen had no intention of departing until he was certain that Hawke, or any of her friends, was not in the surrounding hillsides. He would quietly spread word through the evening that everyone be geared up by false dawn. They would then sweep through, checking every cave, every hidey-hole, and, Maker willing, come across an unprepared Hawke.

In the meantime he needed to keep up the appearance that he planned to move his search elsewhere. He yanked a log over to a flattish rock and spread out the heavy parchment. Settling on the log, he pretended to study the map, tracing his fingers along its worn surface as his men set up tents and groomed the horses. All the while, he circumspectly scanned the surrounding hillside, hoping to catch movement or the glint of sunlight on armor, any sign of the secreted observer. None came and when the hunters returned as twilight was falling, he abandoned his subterfuge.

Cullen barely kept his lip from curling with derision when Samson rode exultantly into camp. Samson, in his opinion, embodied everything that was destroying the Templar Order. Arrogant, cruel, gleefully delighting in harrying mages, and always just shy of outright insubordination to his superiors. Cullen had been conflicted about including him in this mission. In the end, he decided to keep Samson close rather than leave him unsupervised in Kirkwall to spread dissension and unchecked in tormenting the few remaining mages.

"We'll eat well tonight!" Samson tossed a brace of rabbits at one of the nearby men. "Enough for us to dine with gluttony and stoke our fires. We will surely need it tonight for those are not the only rabbits taken this evening." He reached behind and shoved to the ground what appeared to be a large sack draped across his horse's rump. "I also captured this little rabbit."

Cullen pushed his way through the men encircling Samson. He knelt, gently rolling over not a sack of provisions but a figure. That she was a mage was in little doubt as he sensed her struggling to connect to her mana. A livid bruise was purpling the left side of her face, its gauntlet shape darkening the pale skin. Her breaths came in harsh, desperate gasps, and when he gently lifted one eyelid, he was alarmed to find the light in her eye dimming to near lifelessness. "Lyrium, now!"

Samson scoffed, disdainfully replying, "There's no need. The little rabbit will recover withou..."

Cullen's roar of "NOW!" cut him off abruptly. Declan, the newest recruit, reacting quicker than any other, returned with a draught of the precious liquid before the other Templars had managed to move more than a single step.

The recruit pulled the stopper from the glass vial and handed it over before sinking to the ground, nestling the mage's head on his knees. Cullen pried open her mouth and let a single drop fall to her tongue. He waited and then let another drop fall, knowing he couldn't rush it. An influx of lyrium when she was this drained could be as lethal as denying her lyrium altogether.

"How many times?" he asked hoarsely as he tipped another drop to land on her tongue.

There was no need for explanation. All of the Templars surrounding him knew he wanted to know how many times their power of leaching a mage's mana away had been used. Sula, one of the Templars who had accompanied Samson on the hunting expedition, spoke up. "Four, ser."

Cullen's head whipped up quickly, staring with disbelief at the woman. "Four? She's that powerful?"

"Powerful, yes," she began, "but ..." She broke off abruptly when Samson threw her a potent scowl.

Nodding, he turned his gaze back to the mage and let another drop fall from the vial. He would question Sula at length later, away from Samson's menacing presence. For now, though, he needed to continue to nurse the young woman.

It was not until the tenth drop that the mage finally began to respond. Her eyes fluttered open while one scar-covered hand reached blindly for the lyrium. He poured more of the glowing blue fluid into her eager mouth, allowing a sip's worth to be swallowed. Another sip, then a gulp and the lyrium was drained. There was no argument when he demanded another vial. This was consumed quickly as was a third vial but, finally, the mage seemed to have recovered. She managed to sit up, shaky and uncertain. Her eyes were still dazed and unfocused but Cullen knew the danger was past. The mage would live.

"What's to be done with her?" Samson asked with a predatory lick of his lips as Cullen rose from the ground. His tone keen as he eyed the recovering mage with a sadistic hunger.

Cullen wiped the dirt from his knees and gave a quick glance at the woman in question. "She isn't our quarry. She'll recover here tonight and in the morning we'll release her before continuing our hunt for Hawke."

Samson strode forward with heated steps. "The Chantry dictates that _all_ captured apostates be killed, made Tranquil, or Claimed. Those are the only options. Apostasy is not to be condoned for any reason. Are you suggesting that we ignore our duties as Templars?" He sneered and threw the Knight-Captain a look that was just shy of an outright challenge to his leadership. "Are you proposing we finally throw off the shackles of the Chantry and lead ourselves?"

There were grumbles of agreement. Since Meredith's fall, Samson had been busy sowing dissent and had been considerably more successful with his seditious talk than Cullen ever imagined. Only four of the surrounding Templars appeared to support Cullen's decision. The rest were clearly siding with Samson.

Though he had been doubting his place with the Order even before Meredith's fall into madness, despite his strong objections to the mandates from the Chantry leadership which allowed for harsher and harsher treatment of the mages in their care, and in spite of his vehement opposition to Claiming, he would not become the rallying cry for those Templars who wished to rebel against Chantry control. Without a doubt, Samson was trying to maneuver him into saying something, _anything_ , that would spark mutiny. Cullen could not allow that.

 _Maker, I have no choice. It is a mandate of the Templars, Chantry law._ He looked at the mage, the sacrificial lamb, who would soon be Claimed by one of the men or women encircling her. "Any who already have a Claim or do not, for whatever reason, wish to Claim this mage, step back."

There was shuffling and movement, a few hesitated but in the end only two men stayed in place. Declan, a good man. A man who would not ill-treat her but a new recruit of not quite a year. And there was Samson looking exuberant, who strode over to the recovering mage and gripped her jaw, forcing her head back viciously.

"You'll soon be mine, little rabbit. I can't wait to hear you squeal as I fuck you until you're raw." His spiteful smile grew. "And you'll continue to squeal as you pleasure every person here who wishes to use you. I'm not a greedy man. I will delight in sharing you with any who wants."

Cullen strode forward and pushed Samson away from the woman. "You already have a Claim."

"I did. He _displeased_ me," Samson said with a uncaring sniff.

"As did the all others you've Claimed?"

"What does it matter? They were only Claimed mages. If they displease me, I have the right to punish them. If they don't survive, it's of no concern. And as I have more seniority than Declan, she is mine to Claim."

He hated the idea of Claiming, had sworn to never Claim a mage, but he could not sanction Samson having this woman. "It goes by seniority only if there isn't someone of higher rank who wishes to Claim."

" _You?_ " Samson scoffed at the Knight-Captain. "You want to Claim her? You don't even know what to do with her."

"Tread carefully, Samson," Cullen said with fury seeping into the words. "Do you truly wish to be expelled from the Order? How long would you last with your access to lyrium cut off? How long before the cravings drove you mad? Is this apostate truly worth that?"

Samson glanced around, judging how much support he had from his fellow Templars. While many of them were close to revolting against the chokehold of Chantry rule, largely due to Samson's whispered rabble-rousing in their ears, they were still not prepared to take that step just yet, especially not over a lone apostate.

Knowing he had lost, Samson addressed the Templars. "Someone get our Knight-Captain a Binding collar and a Claiming draught."

Within a few heartbeats, Cullen found himself holding the Binding collar, an unbending curve of dull steel with a rune made of a large chalky white stone where it would center on her throat. He knelt down in front of the mage. She had been silent during his confrontation with Samson but aware of what was being decided.

Tears were beginning to pool in her eyes as she trembled with fear. "Please don't," she whispered entreatingly.

"There is no other option," he answered.

"You could make me Tranquil," she said with stuttering breath, "or kill me."

"Only if a Templar does not want to Claim you. It's either me or him." Cullen waited. She had to make this choice herself. He would not deny her that. It was cruel and unforgivable that he was forcing her to choose her captor but he found he could not take this final moment of freewill away from her.

The mage took in a ragged breath then slowly raised her face to gaze at him. And though fear lurked in her eyes, there was bravery evident as well. Her hands rose shakily to lift away her hair from the back of her neck.

Using his considerable strength, he stretched the metal collar wide enough to slip around her throat. There were a series of interlocking loops where the two ends met through which he slid a tiny pin to lock it in place.

A hand, whose he did not know, held out the Claiming draught and a small dagger. With a quick flick, Cullen nicked his thumb on the blade, allowing a single drop of blood to fall into the milky white brew. The droplet sank into the fluid, slowly changing the white into a pale pink as it traveled to the bottom of the vial. The moment the white fluid was entirely stained pink, the liquid pulsed before settling into deep crimson.

He took the vial and was surprised when the woman reached out courageously to cover his hand with her own. Together they lifted it to her lips and she drank, not quite willingly, of the potion. He didn't know what to expect for he had never witnessed a Claiming before but he'd anticipated some sort of change to come over the mage. Instead she was staring at him as before, with that unusual mix of fear and bravery swimming in her eyes. _Still the Claiming isn't complete yet._

Cullen stood and held out a hand to help the mage to her feet. Addressing Declan, he ordered, "Take her to my tent. Sula, with me." He strode away from the camp with Sula following not too far behind. As soon as he was sure there were no prying ears nearby, he turned abruptly. "Explain what happened."

Sula looked about with concern. Samson would retaliate for this but she was loyal to the tenets of the Order and loyal to her Knight-Captain. "We came upon the mage as she was watching the campsite from one of the higher hills. When she realized we had discovered her and all escape routes were blocked, she tried to surrender but Samson ..." Her voice trailed off quietly.

"He attacked with no provocation."

"Yes, ser. The mage, she never once attacked us directly, only casting spells to defend herself. Even when she was weakened to the point she could barely stand, Samson would not relent. He struck her so hard I thought he'd killed her."

_Not a blood mage. Not a violent rebel. Mostly likely just a mage who wishes freedom from her Circle. Yet another brutality by the Order and I must be the one to do it._

"Ser, if I didn't have Kheilen, I would have stood for her. I know you oppose Claiming but it is far better to do this than let Samson get his hands on her."

He took little solace in her words but still answered with a quiet "Thank you." He ran an agitated hand through his blonde curls while saying, "Go back to camp. And Sula, be careful of Samson. He will try to get revenge."

"He'll not catch me unawares. I'm wise to his ways." Before she turned away, she laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Speaking not as a Templar to her Knight-Captain but as one understanding friend consoling another, she said, "It will be alright. Remember you're doing this to save her life."

He nodded as he lifted his eyes to the star-filled sky. Since the moment he'd made the decision to Claim the mage, he'd been filled with an unease that wouldn't subside. He'd once been an eager young boy in Honnleath who had looked to the Templars as saviors, as holy warriors, as champions for all that is just. That hero worship had not abated when he was sent to begin his training, and only intensified when he took his vows.

Then the Kinloch Circle fell and his idealism twisted, darkened. He had stopping viewing himself as protector, as guardian but as jailor. Where once he believed that a Templar's trust in and leniency towards mages could be rewarded with understanding and mutual respect, he'd began to deem otherwise. Mages were deceitful, untrustworthy, weak, and often malicious. Few, if any, could resist becoming abominations or turning to blood magic. Clouded by the nightmares of Uldred's depravities, Cullen's idealism of the Templar Order warped into a loathing of mages.

The transfer to Kirkwall had only perverted his perspective even more. With Meredith's whispered venom in his ear, he'd begun to view mages not as people but rather weapons. Weapons that needed to be strictly controlled. Weapons that had to be watched and monitored because they were weaponry who could rip the world apart in a moment of pique. And the world _had_ been rendered apart. Grand Cleric Elthina dead because of a mage gone mad. Mages and Templars throughout Thedas declaring their independence from Chantry rule. Kirkwall, already struggling to recover from the Qunari attack, now forced to rebuild after mages and Templars brought their war to its streets.

And Meredith. Meredith who had embraced her madness. Meredith who had helped cause the conflict that led to the war. Meredith who had forced the confrontation with Hawke. And Meredith who was Cullen's wakeup call. In that fateful moment, he clearly saw what he might become. Fanatical, cruel, irrational, and unthinking except for unfounded hatred. So he had stood with Hawke against his Knight-Commander, helped to strike her down. Permitted Hawke, who had a hand in the chaos, to depart peacefully in the aftermath.

In the months since he had struggled to find an equilibrium. Memories of Meredith's poisoned whispers still rang in his thoughts when he spied one of the Tranquil or Claimed mages that remained in Kirkwall's Gallows. Distance from the events that led to the mages declaration of freedom had helped to somewhat curtail the rage, the distrust he felt, but he still had moments when the frenzied emotions threatened to erupt.

That struggle was about to become that much more difficult now that he'd Claimed a mage for his own. He was about to be tied permanently, intimately so, with a mage. Their lives would be irrevocably twined together and he feared what that kind of power would do to him. He'd already seen the best of Templars fall to the lure of absolute control of their Claimed mages.

 _And I am hardly the best of Templars anymore. The only thing I can do is to keep temptation at bay. Nothing in Chantry law or Templar mandates requires me to keep her by my side. Once we return to Kirkwall, I will put her in the mages' quarters and I will rarely have to interact with her. She'll be safe with all her needs met. I just need to get through tonight._ Cullen gave a deep sigh. _Maker, give me strength._

Cullen turned and trudged back to the campsite. Stopping first to retrieve a healing potion and a small dagger from his saddlebag, he dismissed Declan, who was standing guard outside his tent, with a curt nod. Outside his tent, he began the process of removing his armor. Once he was in nothing but the thick padded shirt and soft leather breeches he wore under the layers of metal, Cullen pushed aside the tent flap, relieved to find that Declan had already hung a lantern from the central brace. _At least she has not been in the dark with her fear._

She was standing at the far corner of the space as far from the sleeping furs as she could. With the flickering light of the lantern, Cullen finally got a good look at the woman who was about to be tied permanently to him. She was young, barely into her majority. Her bland brown hair limply laid around her face while its mass was captured in a snarled mess at the back of her head. Dirt darkened her skin making it hard to determine in the flickering light if she was fair-skinned or olive-toned. The fist shaped bruise purpling the left half of her face had darkened to near black since he'd left her side. _Her time as an apostate has not been kind._

Her hands fisting and unfisting fretfully into her mud streaked robe, her tearful gaze flew to him as he stepped in and tied closed the flaps. "Please, don't do this." Her voice was soft but terrified. "I swear to Andraste that I will harm no one if you let me go."

"You know I can't do that." Cullen, incapable of meeting her gaze, stared at a point slightly over her shoulder. "Remove your clothes and get on the sleeping fur." When she didn't move, his voiced roughened as he Commanded, "Now."

The mage scrambled to obey, hands flying to rip off her robe and smallclothes while settling on the thick fur situated in the center of the tent. He moved over to her, taking in her rigidly held body, feeling his gut clench in self loathing. Softly, gently, he told her, "Open your legs." When she complied, he sank to kneel between her knees, setting the healing potion and small dagger to the side. Using one hand to unlace his breeches, Cullen moved his other to prepare her, to try to lightly stroke some need into her protesting body. The moment his fingers touched her, the woman tensed and tried to shift away. Cullen's hand lashed out, grasping her hip tightly. "Don't! Until this is done, don't move away."

_I could kiss her, could coax her slowly into compliance with gentle touches. Enough of the Claiming is in place that I could whisper an Order into her ear that she relax or that she welcome my touch. I could Command her to want this, to feel such longing that she begs me to take her but it would be a fallacy. Less about reducing her fear and pain and more about assuaging my guilt. This is rape. I would rather she hate me for forcing myself on her than turn this into a farce of two passionate lovers longing to be in each other arms._

Cullen pushed his breeches and smalls down before firmly seizing his flaccid cock. There was a brutality as he tried to force it into hardening. An almost painful grip slid up and down, twisting occasionally, trying anything that would garner a response. Sheer determination and methodical ministration finally overcame his emotional reluctance. His cock began to stir, with each stroke lengthening, hardening. Still, he did not stop. He kept at it, with harsh movements, until he felt himself close, wanting to lessen her trauma as much as possible. With a great unwillingness, he moved over her, bracing himself as he slide into her. He kept his gaze averted from her tearful face but he couldn't drown out her whimpers or the cry of pain as he broke through resistance. _Yet another thing to regret this night. She is a maiden no more._ His self-loathing grew, wanting nothing more than to pull away, to stop this cruelty, but he knew he had no choice but to continue. The Claiming must be completed.

Cullen gritted his teeth, fighting to keep from losing his erection. There was no finesse, though he tried to be gentle, as he continued to move in and out of her, just doing what he must to come as quickly as possible. It felt like an eternity as he tried to ignore her soft whimpers, to not look at her tear-streaked face, or feel the flexing of her legs as she struggled to move away before his earlier Order took over, forcing her to remain motionless under him. There was no pleasure from his climax when it finally came, only regret, shame, and despair.

With the spilling of his seed, the white rune on the Binding band began to pulse with increasing brightness. Cullen pulled out of her, reaching quickly with a shaky hand for the dagger sitting close by. He, as he had earlier with the Claiming draught, nicked his thumb with the sharp edge, and pressed a single drop of blood against the rune. It continued to pulse with an inner light, though the gleam took on a redder and redder shade.

Speaking quietly, he issued the rules that would now control the mage he had just tied permanently to his whims. "Under no circumstance may you cast a spell or use your magic. You will do no action that reflects negatively on me, on the Order, or on the Chantry. Until we return to the Circle, you may not venture out of my sight without permission." As soon as he finished speaking, the rune gave one final pulse, the chalky white stone transforming into hardened crimson. A distinct clink could be heard as the Binding band melded permanently closed.

He stood, not quite looking at the crying mage as he laced up his breeches. Finally released from his order to not move, the woman rolled to her side, curling her body as she wept and sobbed. Cullen bent over, regret growing as the mage flinched in fear, to cover her with a sleeping fur. Pointing to the healing potion, he said, "That will ease your pain." And then he left her, stumbling out of the tent, away from the camp, to seek isolation, to cry out his shame to the Maker and Andraste.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings - physical abuse and threats of physical abuse.

Cullen spent the night, isolated and cold, propped against a tree away from the camp. Sleep proved to be elusive, skirting away whenever his eyes fluttered shut. Despite his weariness, images of the woman continued playing behind his eyelids - eyes filled with terror as her hands fisted in her robe, the fear-etched face as she scrambled to comply with his order to strip off her clothing, the tears tracing trails through the dirt encrusting her skin as he moved inside her. He could still hear her whimpers, the sharp cry she gave when he broke through her maiden head, the sobbing as he left her. Worse, he kept picturing how he had taken her, his imagination making the act more brutal, more vile each time it played in his mind's eye.

The first moon had long set, the second moon just starting to bath the lands with dim light when the camp erupted with disturbing sounds. He could hear the rapid hoof beats of multiple horses galloping away from the campsite and voices raised in alarm. Cullen drew his sword as he sprinted to the encampment. He found his fellow Templars, all with weapons at the ready, chaotically searching the site, conflicting orders shouted out from all sides.

"Report!" His bellow had an instantaneous effect. The Templars came to immediate attention with shouted explanations coming from several directions. "Quiet!" The campsite fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Cullen pointed at the nearest man. "Vilna, report."

The man straightened even more as he answered, "Someone set the horses loose, supplies are missing. And ...," the Templar's voice trailed off uneasily.

Sula stepped forward. "Ser, four Templars are missing."

"Who?" Cullen gruffly demanded.

"Samson, Acree, Pacey, Miles."

The only indication of his fury was the tightening of his fingers on his sword. He wanted to curse, to smash anything available to vent his rage. He had foolishly included Samson and the other three in order to keep a better eye on the dissidents with the hope that he could somehow prevent their sedition. And it had happened anyway, all because Samson had been denied a new plaything to terrorize. His head shot up in concern. For a brief moment Cullen had forgotten about the mage that he had Claimed. He took several strides towards his tent, wanting to check on her.

"She's safe, Ser," Sula's voice rang out. "I checked on her when it was noticed that Samson was gone."

He nodded gratefully. "Asher! You're the best tracker. See if you can pick up Samson's trail. Loren, Reisa, go through the equipment and supplies. I want an inventory as quickly as possible. The rest of you go round up as many of the horses as you can. Everyone back by false dawn. We break camp at true dawn."

He headed to his tent while his men gathered their equipment and set about following his orders. Despite Sula's assurances, he needed to check on the mage for himself. He lifted the tent flap and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw her sitting atop the sleeping fur. Dressed once again in her torn robes, her bent legs were pressed against her chest, her thin arms wrapped around pulling them even closer. Her face, resting on her knees, was obscured by her long hair and by her side sat the unused healing potion he'd given her. At the sound of his entrance, she lifted her head, shame filling him once again as he caught sight of the tears coursing down her cheeks.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

She nodded hesitantly but did not speak. She trembled and Cullen did not know if it was from the cold or her fear. He picked up the discarded sleeping fur that was used as a blanket. He settled it around her shoulders, his stomach clenching when she flinched in alarm. "Try to get some rest. We'll be leaving in a few hours." Nodding toward the healing potion, he said, "You should take that to ease your pain." He exited the tent quickly, knowing that she would gain more reassurance from solitude than his fright-inducing presence.

Licks of light were starting to appear in the eastern sky as he surveyed the minuscule stack of useable equipment and supplies. Samson and the other deserters had done their job admirably. Just a week's worth of food left. Eight horses to carry ten people plus all their supplies. The casks for watering the horses were smashed beyond usability. Most chilling was that the traitors had managed to filch a majority of the lyrium stores, leaving only a three day supply.

"Ser, what are your orders?" Sula, now his most senior Templar, asked.

He rubbed at his neck, studying the eastern sky that was brightening in reds and oranges. "We return home. We'll need to be resupply before continuing the search for Hawke. There's little point to hunting down Samson and the others." Unsaid, but at the forefront of his thoughts, was his need to get the newly Claimed mage somewhere secure. He turned to grimly address the Templars standing around him. "It will be slow going. We cannot risk injuring any of the horses by overextending them. Half rations of lyrium until we get back." He ignored the angry, resentful glares that appeared on most of the men's faces. "Sula will see to the fair distribution of today's allowance. Start breaking camp. Joyner, you're on mess duty."

Cullen continued to ignore the disgruntled glances that were thrown his way as he strode to his tent. He lifted the tent flap, part of him relieved to find her finally sleeping though the tears shining on her cheek was evidence it had not been for long. He was also thankful she had finally taken the healing potion. The gauntlet shaped bruise on her left cheek had been reduced to a slight mottling of greens and yellows.

He knelt by her side, lightly shaking her shoulder. Her response was immediate. She sat up, clutching the sleeping fur tightly around her thin body, and scooted quickly away from him. Her look of terror sent shame washing over him again. "It's time for us to go. Join me by the fire when you are ready."

Cullen was by the cooking fire starting to load food on a metal plate when she emerged from the tent. If he had been under the impression that she was an apostate who had lived her entire life outside a Circle, her first action as she stood at the tent opening would have dashed that belief. Before taking a single step towards him, her gaze quickly flickered around the campsite, carefully noting where every Templar was positioned. It was a common enough reaction among Circle mages, to be hyperaware of the location of each one of their jailors.

She took small, careful steps towards him, grimacing as her soft slippers that were better suited to the smooth stone floors of a Circle did little to protect her feet from the harsh ground of the campsite. When she reached his side, she stood with her head bent down submissively.

He motioned towards the camp fire. "You must be starving."

She gave the barest of nods before she whispered, "Yes, but ..." Her quiet voice trailed off while looking anxiously over her shoulder towards a group of trees bunched tightly together.

He smiled understandingly. "You may seek privacy whenever you need. Just no lingering. You cannot be gone from my sight without permission until we return to the Circle."

Again she gave the briefest of nods while touching the band permanently locked around her neck with her scar ridden hand. "I remember your dictates."

When she continued to stand there timidly, he said, "Go on. I'll finish getting our food together."

She glanced around, carefully noting the location of every one of the Templars before heading towards the trees. She had only taken a few step when he called out, "Wait!" She stopped immediately, looking at him as if she feared being punished for some misdeed. He went over to his saddlebag, pulling out a tiny sliver of a soap cake and a cleaning cloth. He then strode over to her, handing her the items. Pointing in the opposite direction, he softly said, "If you go that way, you'll find a small pond. I'm sure you'd like a chance to clean up."

She gave him the tiniest of a grateful smile before turning in the direction he'd indicated as he went back to the fire to finish loading food on the plate. He set it down by a log placed near the cooking fire before filling two dented mugs with some tea.

Sula walked over, tipping a small bit of honeycomb into one of the mugs. "I'm sure she's not used to the viciously harsh tea we Templars prefer. I hope she enjoys it cause it's the last of my sweetening."

Cullen grinned. Sula's sweet tooth was notorious. "Thank you. I'm sure she'll appreciate the gesture."

Sula studied him for a moment, noting the tense lines around his eyes and mouth. "How are you doing?"

He shrugged. "About as well as can be expected. A failed mission, Templars deserting their avowed duties, discord in the remaining ones, and now saddled with a Claimed mage when I'd sworn to never take one."

She took a stern tone with him, one that would be inappropriate had they not been close friends since before his promotion to Knight-Captain. "I told you that the likelihood of capturing Hawke was about as fruitless as expecting a Vint and a Qunari to become lovers."

Cullen snorted with amusement. Sula always managed to make him chuckle even when things were grim.

"It was a question of _when_ not _if_ Samson and the other mongrels would desert," she continued. "Yes, there's dissension in the ranks but you've dealt with that better than nearly every other Templar officer in Thedas. Since the madness started, you've managed to keep Kirkwall's Templars still seeing to their duties. How many others can say the same? Kirkwall is one of the few places that _still has_ an Order. That is _your_ doing."

When he didn't reply, as she knew he wouldn't, she gave a great sigh. "As to the mage, would she have been better off given to that scum's ownership? She'd likely already be dead if not for your actions. You've spoken vehemently against Claiming every chance you've could and I know you feel disgusted with yourself about what you've done but at least _you_ will treat her kindly and compassionately." Her eyes flickered over his shoulders. "She's returning. I'll break down your tent while the two of you eat."

He nodded gratefully as he turned to greet the approaching mage. Her steps were hesitant with her head still submissively bowed. He swept the one hand not clutching the mugs of tea to the log by the fire. "Please sit." When she complied, and had set the soap and cloth by her side, he handed her the sweetened tea. Taking a seat beside her, he lifted the plate of food, holding it out between the two of them. He waited for her to start eating, realizing after a few heartbeats that she was instead focused on staring at the metal mug she had clenched with white knuckles in her hands. He leaned slightly towards her, moving the plate to hover just above her lap. "You may be Claimed but I still offer you the honor of breaking our fast."

Her gaze flew up to his, surprise evident in her expression. He gave her an encouraging nod as he slightly lifted the plate filled with chunks of cold rabbit, hardtack, and dried fruit. She reached out timidly, her movement slow and cautious as if worried that a trap was about to be sprung. With her unmarred hand, she lifted a small piece of the dry, thick cracker to her lips, chewing with great slowness on the tiny morsel.

The meal was eaten in silence. She ate modestly, more focused on watching the activity as the Templars broke down the camp and prepared the horses. He suppressed the desire to sigh. The mage been horribly brutalized by his own actions just a few short hours ago. She was scared, unsure of what would happen to her now that she was Claimed. It was no great surprise that she would be timid around him and more than cautious as the sole mage in a company of Templars.

"Knight-Captain, a word when you have a moment," Sula called to him from her spot near the pile of supplies.

He swallowed the last of his tea, grabbed another chunk of rabbit, and walked over to join her. "What is it?"

Sula glanced around, making certain no one was within hearing range. "I recommend we carefully consider how the supplies are distributed. I've no doubt there'll be more desertions before we get back to Kirkwall."

He studied the pile of severely depleted equipment that was still more than they could carry with the limited numbers of horses. "One healing potion and one meal worth of food per man. Four tents total. You and I will carry the lyrium and remaining healing potions. Who can be trusted?"

"Declan," she answered swiftly.

"And who else?"

Sula shook her head. "At this time, none of them. There's more anger simmering than I suspected."

He nodded, trusting in her instinct. "The remaining food will be divided between the three of us. Have someone cut up one of the tents we'll be leaving behind. We can use the oiled cloth to carry water for the horses. As to the rest of the equipment, prioritize what is most needed and distribute as you think best."

In little time they were ready to finally depart. Cullen lifted the mage onto his lap. She'd be uncomfortable sitting crosswise on the saddle with her legs draped over his left leg despite the sleeping fur he'd placed to cushion her but there was little else he could do. He gave her a smaller sleeping fur to wrap around her shoulders. "Asher and Reisa, you're at the front. Joyner as the lightest one of us, you'll ride with Declan for now. In two leagues, switch over to riding with Vilna. Let's move out."

As soon as he set the horse moving, the mage twisted at her waist so she could look ahead, leaning as far forward as she could. They had not even gone a full league when her head began to droop. Like a toddler not wanting to take an afternoon nap, her head would snap up and she would give herself a little shake. But soon the lure of sleep became too much and she slumped against him, curling around to place her cheek against his hard armor.

She slept most of the morning, only stirring once to pull the fur from her shoulders to use as a pillow against his armor. He spent more time studying her rather than keeping a cautious eye on the surrounding. _She's an odd one. Most of the rebel mages are aggressive even when outnumbered. They fight to the death, trying to take down as many Templars as they can in the process. They_ don't _depend only barrier spells until overwhelmed but that is what Sula said the mage did. And her submissiveness. Is that from the Claiming? It seems to be too ingrained somehow for that but it could be simply from being terrified._

_And why shouldn't she be terrified? She was viciously attacked by Samson. Nearly died from multiple Smites. Put on display like she was a horse up for auction. Bound permanently through a ritual to a man she doesn't even know. And then raped so the ritual could be completed. Maker! How do I apologize for that? What words can even begin to try to heal the hurt I've caused?_

Cullen spent the rest of the morning coming up with and rejecting what he would say to her when she woke. Nothing was right. It all seemed shallow and lacking. Nothing could encompass the totality of his guilt.

He grinned, despite himself, when she finally began to stir. She was a slow riser to be sure. The mage grumbled peevishly as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of palms, yawning mightily several times. And just as he was about to recite the apology that he'd been practicing the past several leagues, he was struck by something.

"I don't even know your name," he exclaimed in surprise.

With a sleepy mumble, she replied, "Evelyn. Evelyn Trevelyan."

She alternated between blinking owlishly in the bright sunshine and trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. "And what do I call you or would you prefer Lord and Master?"

He chuckled. _So maybe not so submissive after all._

Her head whipped up at his laugh, face paling instantly. Her hands shook as she distressingly clutched them together. "I ... I ... Please. I didn't mean it. I ..."

"I'm not upset." He smiled reassuringly. "Actually, I'm relieved. I was beginning to worry you'd lost your personality from the Claiming. When it is just you and I, you may speak your mind however you like without fear of reprisal. All I ask is that you be cautious when others are around. There are certain expectations of how a Claimed mage is to act. I do not want to be put in a position of having to punish you for speaking your mind in public. And to answer your question, you may call me Cullen."

"And you are Knight-Captain?"

When he nodded, she asked, "For which Circle?"

"Kirkwall."

She gave a distressed gasp, her face paling to near white. "The ... the ... Gallows?" she stuttered out in alarm. Evelyn began trembling so hard that she would have fallen from the horse had he not had her caged within with his arms.

"Calm down," he said more forcefully than he intended. The impact of his unanticipated order was instantaneous. The trembling stopped, color returned to her cheeks, and she stared at him contentedly. Cullen cursed silently and reminded himself that he would have to be careful how he modulated his voice around her. Even the least hint of an order or command would have her obeying - willingly or not.

"Kirkwall ...," he said as he struggled to find the words to reassure her. "It's not as it was, I promise. You will be safe and well-treated. I will not let you be abused. This I swear by the Maker. Please believe me."

Because the order to calm herself had been mild, the effect was already wearing off. With a hint of skepticism, she nodded hesitantly.

"Good," he said as he absently rubbed at the back of his neck. "What Circle are you ... were you with?"

"Ostwick."

"Ostwick?" he repeated with puzzlement. "But Ostwick is the only Circle in all of Thedas where the mages have not outright rebelled. From all accounts the mages there are content and prefer to stay under Chantry rule."

She turned her head to stare ahead, her posture stiffening sharply. "Looking from the outside can give a different perspective from living it from within."

He was about to press her about it when she swiftly turned her attention to the hands that were tightly fisted in her lap. With a pained grimace, she straightened out her scar-covered hand, flexing it a few times to relieve the hurt.

"May I?" he asked softly, holding out his open hand. She hesitated and then reluctantly placed her right hand in his palm. He studied it, noting the scars were not the type so typically found on a blood mage. Her disfigurement was likely from a fire if he judged correctly. He flipped over her hand, finding more of the ropey white scar tissue with valleys of reddened skin covering the palm. _Not recent. At least a few years old._ "Does it pain you?"

He allowed her to tug her hand from his light hold. She immediately hid the damaged hand in the folds of her robe. "It's manageable." She turned away again. Her body language clearly conveying that she'd rather not discuss it.

Cullen was curious, more than curious actually, but he let the topic go for now. _Perhaps when she is more comfortable with me, she will tell me the tale._ He rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. Though he knew the first step he needed to take was to somehow apologize for forcing himself on her, the words just weren't coming to him.

"I ..." He stopped to clear his suddenly dry throat. "That is, about last night ... I mean, if there had been any other way ..." He cleared his throat again. "I know I hurt you ... The Claiming requires ..." His voice trailed off uncomfortably.

The mage didn't turn to look at him and held herself even more stiffly as he stuttered through his fumbled apology. "I know what is required for a Claiming." Her tone was not accusing nor even angry but it was also not forgiving. Her matter-of-fact acceptance of the assault made him feel even more wretched. And even though he wanted to try to redeem himself in her eyes somehow, she clearly wanted to cease the topic so he acquiesced, dropping into silence.

The quiet was heavy and burdensome between them, lingering well into late afternoon. He noticed her glancing at him from time to time, her probing gaze remaining longer each time before darting away. Finally she spoke in a whisper. "Were you sincere when you said I could speak my mind without consequence?"

"I may come to regret this, but yes," he said with a smile. "Even if you rail against me, even if you curse me and cry to the Maker for vengeance. Call me a bastard for what I did to you because I deserve it and far more.

She sat there, weighing his words and his manner. Finally, her voice a bit defiant and without a trace of fear, she asked, "How can the Chantry and the Templars condone Claiming? How is it any different from blood magic? Both takes away the freewill of another. Both involve the spilling of blood. Both can force the victim to do things so terribly opposed to their nature. Yet the Chantry names blood magic an executable offense while lauding Templars whenever they Claim an apostate."

He winced at her use of the word victim but, in truth, that was what she was. "I don't disagree with you. It is one of many reasons I have spoken against it. In my opinion, it is as nefarious as blood magic. The Chantry instituted Claiming because of the rise in the number of apostates and because Circle mages were calling for more personal rights and freedoms. It was decided that if mages chose to live as apostates instead of submitting to Chantry rule, they would risk being Claimed by Templars, losing not only their freedom but their freewill as well. Of course the Chantry refuses to acknowledge that Claiming is no different than blood magic. Which it _is_ for the reasons you stated. I cannot understand why it is permitted. All it has done is make mages more desperate to escape from their control."

"Then why did you ..." She looked down miserably at her lap.

He placed a finger under her chin, gently pressing for her to raise her gaze back towards him. "Why did I Claim you?"

She nodded despondently.

"Samson, the man who captured you, is beyond cruel. He would have hurt you, terribly so, had he been allowed to Claim you. There are rules if multiple Templars wish to Claim an apostate. It goes by seniority unless ..."

"Unless a Templar of higher rank wants to Claim the mage," she interrupted. At his nod, she continued, "So the reason you Claimed me was to prevent him from doing so?"

"Yes," he agreed. "There was no other way to keep you from his brutality, Evelyn," he said as he raised a hand to sweep back the lock of hair covering her face. He was pleased that she didn't flinch at the gesture. "Neither one of us wanted this. I never intended to Claim a mage and you certainly didn't want to be Claimed. All we can do is try to make the best of this situation we find ourselves in. Just follow any orders I give you, treat me respectfully when others are around, and tell me when you have any needs or are unhappy about something. In return, I will try to make your life as comfortable as I can. Is this acceptable?"

She nodded in agreement, even though they both knew there was little she could do if she objected. She was Claimed, was _his_ Claimed, and only Cullen's wants truly mattered now.

They rode in silence the rest of the day until he called a halt about an hour before sunset. The spot was near perfect. There was a large lake nearby so watering the horses would be a simple task. There was a flat clearing with a string of trees on one side which would offer some windbreak, plus a large amount of dried tinder for a cook fire. "We'll make camp here," he called out to his fellow Templars. He grabbed Evelyn around the waist, carefully lowering her to the ground. "Hold on to the horse. Your legs are probably unsteady from the long ride."

He dismounted quickly, spanning his hands around her in case she started to fall. She clutched anxiously to the saddle while hissing in pain. Her legs wobbled, nearly giving out on her a couple of times but she soon straightened, giving a slight smile when she finally stood steadily.

"You should walk around while we set up camp. It'll help work out your cramped muscles. Just don't go too far."

She nodded absently as she strolled over to the lake. He watched as she knelt down to dip her hands in the cold water, scrubbing to loosen some of the dirt that was still encrusting her skin. She rose quickly, moving over to study a plant that had caught her eye. He smiled as she knelt again. _She probably hasn't been outside from the time she was placed in the Ostwick Circle until she escaped. Likely she couldn't take time to appreciate her surroundings while on the run. Probably too scared to do more than run and hide and do her best to survive in an environment she didn't understand._ Evelyn reached out, pulling off a small leaf from the plant and brought it to her face. She took a deep breath, smiling all the while. _At least she will have something to distract her until we reach Kirkwall, to touch, and feel, and smell all the things in nature that has been denied her these years._

He turned back to his horse to begin unloading all the supplies that were carefully strapped behind the saddle. The fact they had reached a semi-resolution was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that he felt he could make the Claiming work for the both of them. She'd learn to trust him and he would keep her safe as was his duty as a Templar.

The resolution, however, was also a curse. Now that his mind was not completely focused on what he'd done, on the pain he'd caused her, his body was reminding him of his half-dose of lyrium that morning. _It was not enough. It is never enough._ His palms were slick, his skin tightening uncomfortably. A sharp pain was beginning to throb behind his eyes and irritation at everything was growing. The air was too cool, the sky too bright, the birdcalls too loud. His men were too slow at seeing to their duties. Even Evelyn was too ... too ... too annoying as she meandered around, looking towards him from time to time to make certain she was not at risk of straying too far.

He looked at the saddlebag where the remaining doses were safely stowed. _It's my right to take a full dose. Officers are never held to rationing of supplies. I could just reach in and take one._ His body burned with the need to feel the icy fluid slip over his tongue. Instead, he took a deep, cleansing breath. _If my men must be on half rations then so shall I._ He prided himself for leading by example. He would not demand one thing of them while he did the opposite.

Leaving Declan with the task of grooming his horse, Cullen began setting up his tent. As he set the braces, spread out the oiled canvas, and tightened the lines, lyrium's siren song continued to call to him, increasing his frustration. His movements were slow and clumsy with need as he spread out the sleeping furs, and safely stowed the crucial supplies within the confines of the tent. The burning desire just grew. He wanted the lyrium. _Needed_ it. _Maker's breath! I should have secured the lyrium when Samson challenged me. I should have known what he would do._

He scratched anxiously at his skin, feeling as if a hundred needles were digging deeply into him. Then something happened that he'd never experienced before when necessity had caused him to reduce or miss his lyrium dosage. He felt a soft pressure along his entire body. Not enough to hurt, just enough that he was aware of it. Simultaneously he heard the mage give a pained shout. And he knew, he just knew, that she'd broken one of his orders.

He stormed out of the tent, somehow knowing exactly where the mage was. He found her, far from the camp. Too far from the camp. She was on the ground, curled up in pain, clutching desperately at the metal band encircling her neck. Despite the dimness of dusk, he could see her red splotched face, her mouth open in a soundless cry, tears coursing down her cheeks. As he approached, her grip on the Binding band eased and she began taking in large gulps of air.

"How dare you!" he roared, the irritation that had been brewing flaring into unfounded fury. He reached down, grabbing her arm in a bruise causing grip, and yanked her up to sitting. "How dare you! You're like every other mage. Deceitful, manipulative. I didn't want Samson to hurt you so I did the one thing I swore I would never do! I Claimed you to protect you and you repay my kindness by trying to run away."

In between her gulps for air, he could hear her pleading, "Please. I wasn't ... I didn't ..."

"Stop talking," he spat. The mage immediately stopped babbling as his order took control. Cullen tightened his grip on her arm and began dragging her towards the camp. He had taken several strides before she was able to fight to her feet. Every time she stumbled or fell to her knees, he simply tightened his grip and continued to drag her towards his tent, mindless to the injury he was causing.

When Cullen reached the glow of the cook fire, he knew that every Templar stopped to glance at them. Just as he knew every single one of them turned their attention back to their work almost immediately. He could flay her alive and not one of them would try to stop him. She was nothing but a Claimed. He could do anything to her. He didn't even need a reason. That was his right.

He continued towards his tent, shoving her harshly inside. She lay there, panting, in the middle of the sleeping fur. Her head whipped up when he took a step towards her. She stared with terror, not at his face, but slightly above and to the side. In a moment of clarity, he realized that his arm was raised, his hand tightly fisted, a heartbeat away from brutally striking her.

His anger cooled only slightly but enough that he realized he needed to get away from her before he did something he'd regret. "Stay here until I return," he commanded as he slipped out of the tent. No one tried to stop him as he rushed away from the campsite. Fury drove his stride as he wandered in no particular direction. He jogged when on level ground, walking briskly when it wasn't. He wasn't worried about getting lost for he had an excellent sense of direction.

The sun had long set and the first moon was well up in the sky when he found himself by the lake, exactly at the spot where not long ago Evelyn had been curled in distress. He sat, watching the moonlight reflect off the rippling water. His anger was still there, simmering and festering, just below the surface. He knew his explosion was not solely because Evelyn had defied his orders. His hungering for lyrium made him quick tempered. That Evelyn was a mage was also a large part of the reason. His torture at Uldred's hand, the events in Kirkwall, years of dispatching blood mages and striking down abominations, even Hawke's decision to let Anders live, all seemed to combine into a jumble of seething mistrust that had found focus on the timid mage that was now his Claimed.

Cullen sighed. The Binding band had been punishing her even before he'd reached her side. And he'd nearly struck her, brutally so. She now knew that no matter how much she desired to escape, it was impossible. Perhaps that was a fitting enough punishment for her defiance.

When he placed his hand to push himself up from the ground, he felt a pile of loose plant stems under his fingers. He picked up one of the stalks, studying it in the moonlight. Cullen smelled the faint fragrance of elfroot as he bruised a tender leaf between his fingers and he was quickly awash with humiliation.

He clambered back to the camp with the bunch of elfroot clasped tightly in his fist. Before he could enter his tent, Sula stepped in front of him, holding out a plate full of food. "She'll be hungry," she said without any admonishment. Cullen took the plate, giving Sula a grateful nod, before he pressed through the tent flaps.

Evelyn was sitting in the middle of the sleeping fur, her legs pressed tightly to her chest. She lifted her head to gaze at him warily.

He walked over and squatted in front of her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions," he said as he handed over the bunch of wilting elfroot.

She nodded, a hint of resentment growing in her steady gaze as she took the stems.

"I should have given you a chance to explain that you were gathering elfroot."

He was given another curt nod, her bitterness becoming even more evident.

"You didn't know you had wandered so far from camp, did you?

Her mouth straightened into an livid line as she shook her head.

"Are you, I mean, did I hurt you?"

She opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. With an angry rush of her hand, she tapped meaningfully against the Binding band.

"Oh, Maker! I forgot that I ordered you not to talk." He hung his head in regret. "I'm sorry. So very sorry. You have permission to say anything you like. Yell and scream at me for as long as you desire. I deserve it."

"I'm not hurt, not seriously that is. My knees are scraped and bleeding. I'd like to wash the dirt from them." Her voice was unforgiving when she added, "If that is permissible, my Lord and Master."

He winced but could understand her hostility. He deserved it and far more for what he'd done. "I'll have someone bring you water. The soap and cleaning cloth are in the outside pocket of the saddlebag." He nodded to where it sat in the corner of the tent before handing over the plate of food. "Eat what you can. Return the plate to whomever is by the cooking fire when you are done."

He rose, pausing at the tent's entrance. "Evelyn, I know you have no reason to believe me but I am sincerely sorry. Try to get some sleep. It'll be another long day of riding tomorrow."

Cullen didn't linger to see if she accepted his apology. He went to the cook fire, asking Declan to bring her some warm water. He then strode back to the lake, intending to spend yet another night in shamed solitude.


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen sat by the lake, struggling to find a sense of balance. His emotions swung back and forth like a fast-moving pendulum. Anger to shame to fury to humiliation to bitterness. Equally so, his thoughts whirled uncontrollably. Lyrium. Kinloch. Evelyn. Meredith. Lyrium. Hawke. Anders. Evelyn. Lyrium. Kirkwall. Claiming. Lyrium. Evelyn. Lyrium. Lyrium. Lyrium.

He released his breath in an agitated rush. His skin was prickling, the pounding headache threatening to return. The yearning for the glowing fluid intensified everything else. The air felt colder, the ground harder, the silence deeper. His self-loathing becoming a yawning pit that threatened to consume him.

He sensed rather than heard her approach. "I want to be alone."

Sula took a step forward and sank down beside him. "Guess this'll be one of those times you don't get what you want." She set a plate of food in front of him.

Cullen's stomach threatened to heave, even the notion of eating made him nauseous. "I don't have much of an appetite," he said while pushing the plate away.

Sula snorted. "Your mage said much the same when she brought her mostly uneaten meal to me."

"Is she," he began with his head remorsefully bent down. "Is she okay?"

"A little more wary. A little more timid if that's even possible but otherwise unharmed."

He nodded in acknowledgment but stayed quiet.

As he knew she would, Sula said nothing. She maintained the silence, letting it grow and thicken. Using the stillness as if it was a potent weapon, Sula nurtured it, until he felt he had no choice but to open up lest it strangle him.

"I almost hit her."

There was no judgment in her voice when she softly replied, "But you didn't."

Cullen looked at her disbelieving. "I can't see you condoning a man hitting, or even threatening to hit, a woman."

She gave an offended sniff. "You're right. I don't think a man should threaten to harm a woman. I also believe that a woman shouldn't threaten to strike a man. I'm progressive that way." She braced her arms behind her, leaning back to stare up at the star-filled sky. "The important thing is that you've learned to walk away from her when your anger is in control. Just do it _before_ you raise your fist next time. Then, after you've cooled down, you can speak with your Claimed rationally."

"Evelyn. Her name is Evelyn."

Sula threw him a cheeky grin. "So you finally learned her name. I'm impressed."

"Thanks," he said bitterly.

She straightened, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder. "I didn't mean it that way." Her grin growing, she added, "Learning someone's name is an important first step in any relationship."

"It isn't a relationship!" he huffed irritably.

"Isn't it?"

"No." Cullen's fury alighted anew. "It's a responsibility. An added burden, one that I don't want!"

She shook her head sadly. "It doesn't have to be that way, Cullen. Take some time to get to know her. She might surprise you. Evelyn might just be what you need."

"No!"

"So I was right," she said sadly. "When we get back to Kirkwall, you're going to stick her in the mages' quarters and mostly forget about her. Should I start writing up quarterly reports of how she fares or do you plan to have her brought to your office once a month for a two minute appointment? You can placate your guilt by asking after her health and well-being before sending her away until the next time."

"It's for the best," he replied stubbornly.

"I disagree." She let the silence prevail again. It was the one weapon she wielded that he was incapable of blocking.

He fought against it, nearly deciding to get up and stalk away from her. Instead, he tentatively asked, "How do I gain her trust after everything I've done to her?"

"You could always Order her to trust you."

"How can you ... I could never ... There is no way I would ..." he sputtered in revulsion. Just the very idea of Ordering such a change to Evelyn, to any Claimed actually, horrified him to his very core.

Sula looked pleased with herself. "Good! Remember this feeling, Cullen. Some day in the future, there will be a point when you will be tempted to _alter_ her to suit yourself. It's a dark temptation that, if you don't fight against it, could gain control. Don't give into the power you now wield over Evelyn. Don't _ever_ give into the temptation. Too many Claimed are Ordered or Commanded to the point the only difference between them and the Tranquil is the lack of a brand on their forehead." Sula eased back, once again gazing up at the stars. "As to your question, I only have a question in return. How can Evelyn even begin to trust you when you won't allow yourself to trust her?"

He looked away, his jaw tightening dangerously.

She sighed. "Okay. Tell me. What do you see when you look at Evelyn?"

"I don't understand."

"When I look at Evelyn, I see a woman who happens to be a mage. When you look at her, you see a mage who isn't quite a person. Am I right?"

"I want to," he whispered. "To see her as a person, I mean. It's just ..." He splayed his hands out helplessly. "Kinloch changed everything."

Sula nodded sympathetically. "Talking with her might help."

"I have been talking with her. It hasn't made it any easier."

"No, you haven't been talking with her. You've spent a lot of time apologizing to and trying to reassure her. That's not conversation, Cullen." She smirked. "You're just scared to talk with her because you know you'll turn into the bumbling, stuttering idiot you become whenever you're forced to speak with a woman."

"I do not," he said, affronted and annoyed.

Sula sniggered. "Of course you do. You stammer and turn red and rub nervously at your neck. It's quite amusing."

"I've never had trouble talking with you," he grumbled, all too aware that she was speaking the truth. He _did_ become a blundering fool when it came to women.

"True," she replied. "But you've never thought of me as a woman. When you first transferred to Kirkwall, I was just a fellow Templar. That annoying comrade-in-arms you preferred to have assigned with you for the night watch because I helped to make the time pass faster. After your promotion, I became ..."

Cullen interrupted with, "You became the mouthy subordinate who continually tests her limits."

"Someone has to keep you on your toes." Her mood sobered a bit. "Cullen, how do you want your Claiming to work?

He hesitated, thinking for a moment. "I don't really know. It's not something I've thought about because I oppose Claiming so much. I do know I don't want her to be afraid of me. I'd like if she could come to trust me. I know I want her to be safe and well cared for. Beyond that," he shrugged uncertainly.

"It seems to me that until you decide what you want from this, the rest is moot. If you plan to lock her away in the mages' quarters when we get back to Kirkwall, what does it matter if she trusts you or not?"

"It matters to me," he answered in a near whisper.

"Then you have at least a partial answer. To get Evelyn to trust you, you must first start to trust her which means interacting with her. Do try not to come off as the village idiot when you do." She laughed at his low grumble.

"Remind me to put you on the worst assignments for a month once we get back," he said dryly.

Her laughter grew with his low chuckle eventually joining in.

He studied her closely, finally reaching a decision for something he'd been considering since Meredith's fall. A wicked smirk soon came to his lips. "I just thought of the perfect punishment."

"Oh?" she asked warily.

His smirk grew. "Congratulations on your promotion, Knight-Lieutenant. It's more than deserved. Meredith shouldn't have passed you over last year. Now _you_ get to deal with all the mouthy subordinates."

While her voice sounded sour when she said, "Thanks a lot," her face beamed with pride. "Ser, I won't disappoint you."

He smiled. "You never have, Sula. Not as a Templar. And not as a friend."

Cullen knew, without looking up, that false dawn was upon them. The itching craving for lyrium was building. The time for his half-ration was nearing, his throat drying in anticipation of tasting the chilling pungent liquid.

"I suppose we should start the day," Sula, her hands slightly shaking, quietly stated. The call of lyrium was equally affecting her.

Cullen grunted, rising without speaking.

The routine that was set that morning continued for the next three days. Cullen woke Evelyn. They broke their fast with stilted conversation, primarily consisting of him encouraging her to eat more. He lifted her up to sit in front of him so they could continue their journey. While the horses plodded on with necessary slowness, she alternated between pretending to rest and watching the changing scenery with fascination. Birds especially, Cullen noted, enthralled her. They took frequent breaks to rest the wearing mounts before continuing on until near sunset. Camp was quickly set up and there was a notable lack of conversation when the group gathered around the cook fire. Tension was rising as was the disgruntled mumbling about the continuing half rations of lyrium.

The only variations to the routine was who deserted and how quickly Evelyn retreated to Cullen's tent each evening. Loren and Joyner, plus the mount they shared, were gone by the nooning the third day after Samson's defection. Reisa left in the middle of the following night, walking away, due to Sula and Declan's quick actions, with only her saddlebag in hand.

At night Cullen would wait a few hours before joining Evelyn in his tent. The third evening after he had Claimed her, he found her still awake, lying in the center of the sleeping furs. He turned away and removed his armor, carefully setting each piece down. Still clad in the padded shirt and trousers he wore under all the metal, he turned back to find she'd moved over to the edge of the sleeping fur so she was only half covered by its thick warmth, curled on her side facing away from him. He crawled into the furs, lying on his back, not saying a word to her, not knowing what he could say to her.

The night was cold and within a short time, he could feel her shivering, hear her teeth chattering. He rolled to face her, humiliated that she would rather suffer than share the warmth of the sleeping furs. He was inclined to let her be. He wanted her to have as much freewill as possible but then he decided that, first and foremost, his primary responsibility was to see to her care. He reached out, looping his arm around her waist, and pulled her flush against him. Evelyn immediately stiffened, her breath quickening in trepidation. He leaned his face forward, lips close to her ear. "Go to sleep, Evelyn. Nothing is going to happen."

Keeping one arm loosely around her waist, caging her in so she couldn't scoot away, he pillowed his head on the other one. With infinitesimal slowness, Evelyn relaxed and eventually her breathing slowed to the steady rhythms of sleep.

 _This was a mistake._ Cullen wanted to let out a deep groan. His body was taking increasing interest in the soft flesh pressed against his chest, of the tempting backside nestled against his groin. Despite the unfriendly gossip that was often banded about in the Templars' barracks about his near-virginal status, Cullen was not unfamiliar with the pleasures of a woman's body. He could not indulge as frequently as he might like. His rank and duties, not to mention his complete ineptness when conversing with women, afforded infrequent opportunities to cultivate willing partners.

And now he had a Claimed. Evelyn had no rights in the eyes of the Chantry save those Cullen granted her. He owned her mind, soul, body. _Especially_ body. Circle mages were supposed to be untouchable, protected from the sexual proclivities of the Templars who guarded them. Before Claiming was authorized by the Chantry, too often that proved not be the case. If a Templar was found to have a sexual relationship, coerced or not, with a Circle mage, the Templar could be severely punished.

The same was not true for a Claimed. The Order not only permitted but essentially encouraged their sexual use as punishment for defiance of Chantry rule. Claimed were playthings whose central purpose was to slake the wanton passions of those who had Claimed them. A night's use of a Claimed became a typical bet during a round of Wicked Grace. Templars clambered for patrol assignments - the chance to Claim an apostate worth the weeks spent on horseback.

Meredith had been even more merciless in using Claimed to crush the sedition of the mages within the Gallows' walls. Through the promise of extra draughts of lyrium and endless casks of ale, she encouraged frequent orgies where the Claimed had to service any Templar as often and in any way demanded. On those nights, it was obligatory for the Circle mages to attend, standing as silent observers along the walls. They were forced to watch, to see what their fate would be should they be imprudent enough to attempt escape.

Cullen had to suppress another groan. The night he'd Claimed Evelyn, he had had to force himself to an erection. Tonight, his cock had no trouble stirring. There was a body next to him. A body that he could use to douse his desire. From the darkest corner of his mind, whispered thoughts came. _She is nothing but a Claimed. She is_ your _Claimed. It is your right. Take her, use her, quell the clawing need for lyrium by fucking until you find release._

He rolled away from her, taking in harsh breaths. When counting didn't distract him from the insidious thoughts, he began reciting the Chant. Canticles of Andraste, of Benedictions, of Erudition flowed through his thoughts. He grasped at various verses, concentrating, desperately reciting yet still the dark urgings continued. When he finally fell asleep, the desire was still there. Exhaustion had simply won out.

The following evening went much the same way. He waited until he nearly stumbling with fatigue before entering his tent. This night he did not try to keep her warm within his arms. He kept away from her, resting on the very edge of the sleeping fur. That did not stop his body from reacting, nor the dark part of his soul from trying to batter down his resolve. It took many more hours of recitation and prayers before he fell into a restless sleep.

The next night, the fifth since he'd Claimed her, his eyes followed her as she rose from her spot by the cooking fire. As she walked to his tent, his gaze followed, noting the graceful way she walked, the gentle sway of her hips, and the slight bounce of her breasts. His breath quickened, his blood coursing, his body tightening with anticipation. And the darkness he could no longer suppress roared in triumph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning - the next chapter will increase the rating to Explicit and will be NSFW


	4. Chapter 4 - Explicit and NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until I began to write Dragon Age stories, the most explicit I've ever been in a story is to use the phrase "nether region." Seriously! I tend to PG-13 EVERYTHING. Anyway, I stepped a tiny bit out of my comfort zone with my first DA story. Coming up with the concept of this story, I took a moderate jump away from it. This chapter ... well, let's just say that I pole-vaulted and my comfort zone is now a tiny little dot far off on the horizon. This is my first attempt at writing smut. Hope it doesn't come across too amateurish.  
> Closing eyes, pressing post, and letting my boyfriend haul me away for dinner and margaritas so I don't come scrambling back to delete this.
> 
> Chapter warnings - Explicit and NSFW. Non-con/Dub-con (sort of), Dom!Cullen (sort of), sub!Evelyn (sort of), dirty talk (sort of)

Evelyn was toeing off her slippers when he strode into the tent. Cullen ignored her as he added a lantern to the one already hanging from the central brace. He wanted to flood the area in light, wanted to see everything, have none of the experience dulled. He continued to ignore her as he tied shut the tent flaps. He could sense her uncertainty, her wariness, her growing fear and he reveled in it. He could taste it, smell it, feel it, and it made the predator in him growl with anticipation.

He turned toward her, enjoying her rounded eyes, the fidgeting hands, the way she bit apprehensively on her lower lip. Cullen reached up and began unbuckling the armor. Her gaze darted away, turning to stare uneasily at her feet. He snarled, "Watch me."

Evelyn's head snapped up, her eyes locking onto his. He smirked, continuing to slowly remove his armor bit by bit. As each piece was set carefully on the ground, her complexion paled and her fists flexed with increasing tightness. Finally divested from the armor, he paused, watching her with quickly dilating eyes, her fear feeding his lust. He then peeled off his padded shirt, leaving his chest bare for the first time in front of her. Her breath caught, coming in tiny pants of panic. She paled to nearly white as he began to circle her, her head turning to watch him as she'd been Ordered.

"Take off your robe," he growled after he'd taken a third turn around her. Tears welled in Evelyn's eyes as she began to hastily remove her clothing. "No! Slowly. I want to enjoy this."

He answered her whimper with a cruel smile. Ever circling her, he scrutinized as the lifting cloth slowly revealed skin, exposed long legs, the smalls hiding her cunt, wide hips, the band that covered her breasts. Cullen took the robe from her, tossing it negligently to the side. When her hands reached to remove the breast band, he grabbed her wrists with a sharp shake of his head. He circled her again, assessing her as if she were a horse that he had just purchased. "You're too thin," he criticized while running a finger down her side, stopping to pinch the skin above her hips. "We'll take care of that once we are back in Kirkwall. I want you with soft curves, not boney sharp edges."

He moved to stand behind her, close enough so that she could feel the heat radiating from him but not so close that they actually touched. He gripped her neck tightly to prevent her from turning to look at him. Cullen leaned forward, his lips barely touching the curve of her ear. "I know you've never fucked a man before," he hummed. He had been horrified the night of the Claiming to find she had been a virgin. Now the knowledge that only his dick would ever fill her delighted him. He blew softly against her ear before continuing, "Tell me, have you ever kissed a man, had him suckle your nipples?"

She released an agitated breath. "N...n...nooo," she stuttered.

"Perhaps had a woman between your legs? Let her suck and lick and tease until you came?"

The pink on her cheeks brightened. "No."

Cullen grunted with approval. "None have touched you but is the reverse true? Have you sucked a cock, played with another's pussy?"

Her blush exploded. He could feel the heat of it spread across her cheeks and down her neck. Evelyn, incapable of speaking, gave an embarrassed shake of her head.

"Good," he purred. He released his grip on her neck and stepped back. Her gaze immediately turned to him, following as he began to circle her anew. "Have you ever touched yourself, plunged your fingers in and out of your cunt until you cried out in pleasure?"

She tried to close her eyes, to hide from his intense gaze but his Order would not permit it. Her voice was hoarse and so soft that he could barely hear her over her harsh breaths. "No."

"Why not?"

The tears that had been welling in her eyes finally spilled over, trailing over her blushing cheeks. "There was never any privacy."

He leaned forward, licking one of the tears, savoring its salty tang. "But you wanted to?"

"Yes," she whispered back with mortification.

Cullen was pleased. She was truly untouched, even from her own hand. "I like that my touch is the only you shall ever know. It pleases me that you will not need to unlearn what others have taught you. I can teach you properly. Teach you to be a whore. Train you to be _my_ whore."

Tears began flowing freely down her face, her breaths coming in hiccupping sobs.

"Shhh," he said while placing a finger against her lips. "You will find pleasure, I promise. I will teach you to yearn for my touch. Your world will become my hands, my lips, my cock, my pleasure." Cullen moved to stand behind her. "You are my Claimed. Your only purpose is to please me and it's time you start learning how. Remove your breast band."

Her hands shook as she complied, a deep sob escaping her lips.

Cullen moved in, pressing his chest firmly against her back. "Touch them. Cup your breasts. Play with your nipples." Her movements were awkward, her innocence apparent as she tried to follow his directives. It inflamed him. He couldn't keep from rubbing his already throbbing cock against her, hissing at the agonizing pleasure that flared. He pressed his lips to her neck, gently nibbling the sensitive skin. "Take off your smalls."

Evelyn was still panting. The fear was there but so was budding desire. There was less hesitancy when she pushed the cloth from her hips.

Cullen growled in approval. "Good, so very good. You are doing very well, my little Claimed." He rewarded her by gently suckling on her ear lobe. Her soft, stuttering moan inflamed him further. He'd barely touched her. She wasn't even fully prepared for him and yet he was already on the knife's edge, so close to tumbling over.

"On your knees." Dazed by the conflicting feelings coursing through her, fear and desire beginning to battle within, Evelyn did not move until he pushed down on her shoulders. When she sank back to sit upon her feet, he snarled, "I did not tell you to kneel."

She corrected herself immediately, quickly straightening up on her knees. Her whispered apology barely loud enough to reach his ears. His hands scrambled to undo the lacing on his breeches, the tight confinement beginning to turn his pleasure to torment. He palmed his jutting erection, stroking up and down to heighten the heady torture. He kicked away the breeches before sinking down to kneel behind her. "Open your legs wider, Evelyn." He reached around, carefully positioning her exactly as he wanted. "Touch yourself, my little innocent. Touch your clit for me."

She gave a strangled sob, somewhere between shame and passion. He watched, with fully blown eyes, as her hand slowly snaked down to settle between her legs. "Good girl. Rub it. Pinch it. Circle it with your fingers."

It took but a few passes until her eyes widened in surprise. She let out a low moan, dropping her head back to rest on his shoulder. Even though the Order to watch him was fading, she jolted in fear when her eyes began to flutter shut.

"Shh. It's okay," he said, gently pressing her head back to his shoulder. "Keep going. Keep touching yourself. Play with your clit. Focus on the pleasure."

Her fingers resumed flexing and moving, her panting growing stronger. His fingers gripped tightly against her hips, rubbing his cock with long, agonizingly slow motions along the crease of her ass. "Put a finger in your cunt. Make yourself wet for me."

She flushed even more, the reddened skin now trailing down to peaked nipples. He hummed smugly, delighting in how quickly he'd been able to overcome her virginal reluctance. He grabbed the wrist that was making tentative motions to follow his instructions. "Like this," he huskily said, guiding her in a slow steady pace. When she made a tiny buck against her hand, he told her, "Add another finger."

A light sheen of sweat appeared on her forehead, her moans coming more frequently and with more volume. As he increased the pace of her fingers thrusting in and out, he matched the speed of his cock rubbing against her ass. His own breaths were coming in harsh pants and he pulled her hand swiftly out of her. "Show me. Show me your arousal."

There was some moisture glistening on her fingers but not enough to satisfy him. "Clean them," he rumbled, pulling her hand up to her mouth. Evelyn turned her face away, stiffening abruptly against him. "Clean them," he repeated, this time roughening his voice into an Order. Her face turned back, mouth opening to take in her lightly slick fingers. "That's it. Lick them. Suck them. Taste yourself." He leaned in, whispering with soft breaths on her ear, "Imagine it is my cock you have in your mouth, my sweet slut. Imagine it is my dick on your tongue, that you are licking it, sucking it, pleasuring it. Next time it will not be your fingers but my cock you taste."

She gave a half-sob, half-moan, continuing to work on her fingers.

"Fuck yourself. Plunge your fingers into your needy cunt." He pulled her hand down, forcing the fingers back in her, setting a quicker pace this time.

"I want ...," Evelyn moaned as she bucked against her fingers and against the cock sliding along her ass. "I need ...,"

His voice practically purring, Cullen asked, "What do you want? Tell me what you need."

"I ...," she whimpered in confusion. "I don't know."

"I do, my slutty Claimed." He pressed a hand between her shoulder blades and gave a forceful push. "On your hands and knees." His burning need made him rough as he pulled her legs wider. He fisted his dick tightly, lining up with her cunt. He took his time sliding in, intensifying the ecstasy he felt of feeling her slick walls press around his cock. His guttural groan, when he was finally fully hilted, overshadowed her lust-filled moan.

His hands, gripping her hips in bruise causing tightness, pushed her forward then pulled her sharply back against him. "Maker! You are so fucking tight. Your cunt is like molten silk." He started to push and pull her back at a brutal pace, slamming hard against her each time. His groans and her moans mingled together into a lusty song. Cullen reached out with one hand, fisting his fingers into the tangled mess of her hair. He pulled her head painfully back so her back bowed downwards. With the other hand he pushed down on her shoulder, forcing her face to the ground. He starting snapping his hips forward as he held her exactly as he wanted. The new angle was perfection, allowing him to penetrate even more deeply, her cunt gripping him like a vice with each thrust. Evelyn's need-filled moans grew each time he slammed forward.

He removed the hand on her back, placing it back on her hip, encouraging her with the flexing of his fingers to meet his thrusts. "Maker! I need to feel you come. Need to feel you clenching around me." He tightened the fist he had in her hair, pulling back sharply, causing her to rise to her hands in an attempt to alleviate the pain. "Touch your clit, slut," he Commanded. "Play with it! Make yourself come!"

Her hand streaked to comply. Twisting, teasing, rubbing. Her moans increased to a near steady whine, her hips bucking uncontrollably. Abruptly her whine changed to a keening cry, her body clenching, and her cunt walls spasming tightly around his dick. Cullen's head dropped back, mouth opening from the intensity, fingers flexing against her hips tightly. _One more thrust. Just one more ..._

oooooo

Cullen woke with a deep grunt. He was on top of Evelyn, pressing her body heavily into the sleeping furs. One hand was firmly kneading the soft flesh of her breast while he humped her hip like a feral mabari.

At her frightened whimper, he threw himself away from her. "Maker! Evelyn! I'm sor ..." He leapt up and when his fumbling fingers couldn't untie the tent flaps, he ripped them apart. He burst out of the tent, the frigid wind doing nothing to ease the heat of his scorching skin. For a second time that evening, he hurried towards a copse of tightly packed trees, knowing it would afford him some essential privacy.

Walking was difficult. He had to keep stopping to palm his painful erection, to adjust his too tight breeches. He had barely made it through the tree line before he was ripping open the laces of his pants, With the vivid images of his dream still floating in his mind, it only took three quick thrusts into his fist until he was spilling over. The resulting orgasm was the most intense he'd ever experienced. His mind went fuzzy, vision blurring, and his legs nearly gave out. Cullen stumbled over, sinking down to lean against the closest tree trunk. "Maker! What is wrong with me?" he panted quietly, aftershocks of pleasure still chasing up and down his skin.

Earlier, when Evelyn had walked towards his tent, his gaze had followed, noting everything about her movements. His thoughts had turned dark, forceful, and full of lust. Not lust for Evelyn. Not lust for the woman. But lust for his possession, his Claimed. He could not ignore the want, the desire that had erupted within him. It would have been too dangerous to join Evelyn with the urges left unabated. So, with Sula's knowing chuckle following him, Cullen had disappeared to the very spot where he currently sat. He'd jerked off quickly, hoping to ease the sharp edges of his immoral yearning to exert his ownership. It hadn't worked. If anything the brief flash of pleasure had only heightened the dark cravings.

At the heart of everyone, even the most devout Andrastian, lurks dark thoughts, vile desires, lusting evilness that could corrupt their very soul. Most people, good and compassionate people, keep these extremely sinister impulses locked away in the deepest corner of their souls, imprisoned away behind thick walls and unbreakable locks. Most live their entire lifetimes blissfully unaware of what lurks in the depths of their souls. Some, like Samson, willingly tear down the walls, reveling in the darkness, embracing the cruelty, permitting and encouraging the immorality to grow and consume. A few are like Cullen, who, because of especial circumstances, have the caged wickedness escape unbidden and they spend the rest of their lives struggling against the darkness.

Cullen covered his face with shaking hands. _Kinloch. It always comes back to bloody Kinloch._ "Maker, will I ever be able to leave Kinloch behind me?" he prayed entreatingly.

He scrubbed at his face, trying but failing to not get caught up in his memories. When Uldred had made his move to capture the Tower, Cullen and the other Templars had been caught unaware. Weapons had been removed before he and his brethren had been ushered to one of the higher floors and placed in a room surrounded by impenetrable barriers. Then Uldred, his face twisted in cruel euphoria behind the shimmering blue barrier, let loose the Desire demons.

Cullen had spent days battling against the temptations they dangled enticingly in front of him. A vision of Solona stretched in debauchery just a hand's reach away, her hips undulating with increasing need, her lips calling his name, begging him to take her, use her. Whispered lies escaped from the demon wearing Solona's form. Its lips promising love, devotion, adoration. He had resisted, knowing despite the exhaustion that muddled his thinking and the hunger and thirst weakening his body, that Solona was gone, far beyond the walls of Kinloch. So he had resisted and watched as, one by one, his friends succumbed to the enticements of Desire, until he was the only one left.

The demons had then reverted to their true forms, curving horns and chain-clamped nipples and blue-purple skin. All of them converged to rake their claws through his sweat-slick hair, each pass scraping away layer upon layer of secrets and protections, until all that was left was the prison housing the worst of him. They battered and pummeled and beat until the fine fissures grew along the sturdy walls. And just as they were about to wrench open the heavy door to let all the darkness escape so it could consume him, Solona appeared, banishing them away.

Only, the damage had been done. Tiny trickles of vileness seeped through the cracks and the door, slightly ajar now, had to be braced and barred and fortified. Without concerted effort, rigorous vigil, the darkness threatened to consume him with its alluring whispers.

Cullen, with the lyrium deprivations already diminishing his mental strength and resolve, was struggling to keep the darkness within him contained. The blackness had already begun staining his soul all those years ago in Kinloch, growing spreading with Meredith's whispers of mage deceptions and dishonesties. Now the temptation of the absolute power he had over Evelyn threatened to consume him entirely. He only had to remember his dream for proof. He wanted to dominate her, possess her, corrupt her. He wanted to mold her into the perfect whore. If he was not careful, he would come to the point of not caring about her needs but only his desires. The craving to bring her pain to heighten his pleasure. The yearning to have her mindless to anything but his gratification.

"Maker! We need to get to Kirkwall, and quickly. Before she realizes she has been Claimed by a monster." Cullen stayed there the rest of the night, not trusting himself to be close to Evelyn.


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen woke angry, agitated, and aching. Sleeping out in the cold against the bruising bark of a tree had left his joints painful and rigid. He bit back the groans of pain as he struggled to straighten off the hard ground. Walking stiffly to Sula's tent, he woke her with an abrupt shake. "Get everyone moving. I want to be on the move by false dawn."

He then went to his mount, brushing it with too firm a hand before beginning to cinch the saddle into place. Cullen worked quickly and by the time his men had donned their armor and were breaking down their tents, he had all the horses saddled and ready to go. He noted one blaring absence when he scanned the campsite. "Sula," he yelled crossly, "I told you to wake everyone. Get the mage up."

She threw him a puzzled look but did as he bid. All too soon, for he really wasn't ready to face her, and not soon enough, for he was resolute they reach Kirkwall that day, Evelyn emerged from his tent. As was her habit, her gaze flickered around the campsite, noting the location of every single Templar. When her eyes fell on him, she reflexively wrapped her arms protectively around her chest. And his shame and anger grew.

"Eat quickly and get your equipment stowed. We leave immediately," he gruffly ordered, his eyes on his men rather than the mage. He strode over to his tent, ignoring how Evelyn nervously shifted from foot to foot at his approach. "Go, get something to eat." He tried to keep his voice neutral but some of his irritation still managed to seep in. She practically bolted to the cooking fire, leaving him to tear down the tent. He was brutally efficient as he worked, his impatience speeding up the ingrained process.

Cullen was already seated on his mount, his portion of the supplies lashed to the back of the saddle, by the time the cook fire was being sanded over. In his fist was clutched the sleeping fur he used to pad the saddle for Evelyn. His gaze first rested on Sula, the more logical choice. She would protect the mage with her life should they be set upon. However, Sula had the annoying talent of ferreting out information and Cullen would rather she not be given the opportunity to learn of his mortifying assault of Evelyn the previous eve. So, as the mage approached him with uneasy steps, Cullen tossed the fur to Declan. "You'll ride with him today."

He knew it was irrational but resentment flared nonetheless at her relieved expression. And when Declan leaned down, placing his hands around her waist to lift her up to the saddle, Cullen's possessiveness exploded. _MINE. SHE'S MINE._ He tamped down on the urge to snatch her from Declan's arms, instead setting his mount going at a swift pace.

Cullen pushed the mounts hard that day, only stopping when they could go no farther. During the breaks, he paced restlessly. Any who dared speak to him was answered with a snarl. And he kept his gaze purposefully away from Evelyn, loathe to see the accusations that he feared might be lurking in her brown eyes. The nooning was eaten in the saddle and when dusk approached he refused to stop.

As the second moon began joining the first in flooding the landscape in moon glow, Sula pulled up her mount in the middle of the trail. "A word, Knight-Captain," she said as she dismounted.

"Not now," was his growled reply.

She crossed her arms, her gaze unyielding. "Yes, now."

It brought him up short. The reason their friendship worked was that they understood the need for boundaries. There were times they were Knight-Captain and Knight-Templar, now Knight-Lieutenant. Then there were times they were friends. Both of them took concerted effort that the lines never blurred. Yet, Sula was standing there, not as a fellow Templar, but as a friend, a very determined one at that.

"If we must," he grumbled. Looking at his men, he said, "Don't get too comfortable. We'll be continuing shortly." He then dismounted, striding away from the group with agitated steps.

As soon as Sula reached him, she demanded, "What in the Fade is wrong with you? And don't you dare say it's because of reduced lyrium. There is something else going on and we both know it. So spill before there's more desertions, including me!"

His first impulse was to hit something. Unfortunately for him, the only thing remotely punchable in the area was Sula. He wasn't so far gone in his irritation to make that seem feasible so he tried to work out his agitation by toeing a mostly submerged stone from the hard packed ground.

Her stance softened, her stormy face easing into concern. "Cullen, talk to me. This isn't like you. You've been an absolute brute all day and Evelyn's as skittish as a fennec surrounded by a pack of mabari."

His face blanched but he refused to speak at first. Instead, his focus in working the stone loose from the ground increased. When the silence became too heavy, he finally said, "We need to get back to Kirkwall."

"We've only got about two or three more leagues. We can make camp here, set out at dawn and be in Kirkwall before the nooning."

Stubborn determination stained his voice as he replied, "Or we can continue on and be there to catch the last ferry to the Gallows tonight."

"This is foolishness, Cullen. The horses are exhausted. The men are close to the breaking point. Why keep pushing on instead of taking a few hours to rest?"

"I," he started helplessly then his obstinacy returned. "We need to get to Kirkwall as soon as possible."

"Evelyn," Sula said with dawning understanding. "Something happened with Evelyn, didn't it?"

He kept his attention on the submerged stone, toeing it back and forth until the hard packed ground finally released it. "I frightened her," he whispered. "Again. I need to get her back to Kirkwall where she will be safe."

Sula stood, her head cocked, her finger tapping her chin in contemplation. "I was wrong when we spoke the other night. It's not that you can't bring yourself to trust her. It's that you don't feel you can trust yourself with her. I'm right, aren't I?"

Shame kept him from meeting her eyes. Humiliation tightened his throat to the point he could not speak so he nodded slowly.

She gave a heavy sigh though Cullen knew it wasn't directed at him. Sula slowly started, "It isn't easy, is it?" She looked over at him, contrite and shame-filled. "You never really know what you're capable of, what lurks inside you until you Claim someone. You're given this unlimited power over another. The Chantry and the Order encourages you to degrade and demean them. Even the laws of Fereldan and Orlais deny them any protection. Legally they are possessions, not even living creatures, so you can treat them however you like. No one will protest no matter what you do to a Claimed. Without legal, societal or Chantry restraints, you can only depend on your moral compass but that's not nearly enough.

"Everyone knows what happens to a mage when they are Claimed but no one speaks of what it does to a Templar. You think you can handle it. You can believe you're a good person. That you're doing it for the right reasons. Claiming is an apparently kinder sentence than death or Tranquility. So what if they lose what few protections they had as a mage. At least they are alive with their emotions intact. But then you learn what you truly are. You learn that having total power over another is too tempting not to use. You begin to change your Claimed in little ways, taking away bits of them to suit yourself. You begin treating them as if they are a toy or a block of clay you can shape into whatever you want. Unless something happens to make you realize that no one should have the power you now wield. That you've been using it callously and without thought."

"You have always treated Kheilen kindly. A bit too lenient at times perhaps but always kindly," Cullen offered soothingly.

She frowned, self-derision apparent in her tightly wound body. "You were not assigned to Kirkwall when I Claimed him. You did not see how I treated him in the initial months. Nothing is minor about Claiming. That first time you Order a change it's simple. So very easy that you don't even think about it the next time. And the next. Until it becomes second nature to alter anything you don't like. And all it takes to make the Order permanent is a drop of blood pressed to the Binding band's rune. If I hadn't realized my mistake, if I had continued to Order changes, how long would it have been until Kheilen was no longer Kheilen?"

Suddenly her anger dissipated, leaving her looking tired and sad. "Don't make the mistakes I did. Don't treat Evelyn as I treated Kheilen. Find something, anything, to keep at the front of your mind that will stop you from caving to the temptation that comes with having a Claimed."

Sula's words caused guilt to pierce through Cullen's festering anger. That he was already on the path of considering Evelyn a possession was in little doubt. His dream had exposed his unconscious desires to dominate, use, own - not the woman but the Claimed. And even though it was because of his directive, Cullen had bristled anew each time he saw Evelyn sitting across Declan's lap. She should be with him, should _want_ to be with him. She should desire nothing more than pleasing him with every breath she took. She should _not_ be relieved to be away from his side.

Sula had been testing him the night she suggested that Cullen simply Order the mage to trust him. She had advised him to hold on to the horror he'd felt at the notion and he had tried. He really had. Yet in the light of day, Cullen was finding it difficult to not give into the pull. His first thought when he woke was to nick his thumb and press a drop of blood to the rune on Evelyn's Binding band. To Command her to forget what had happened the night before. He wanted to take it further. To Order her to trust him, to feel comfortable around him, to be eager to please him. His traitorous thoughts warred against his resolve throughout the long day. _Why not take the easy way out? Why continue in what is possibly a fruitless effort to gain her trust? Each hour that passes, she distrusts me more with good reason. A simple drop of blood and a quickly issued Command will fix everything. Evelyn will never fear me again, no matter what happens._

Cullen shuddered with the strength of the impulses that seemed to grow with every heartbeat. He looked over at Sula who was equally caught up in her own thoughts. "How do you resist? How do you fight against the temptations?"

She ran a weary hand through her hair. "You'll have to find your own shield but mine is to think of Samson."

His lips curled in contempt. "Yes, I expect that would do the trick. He is the perfect example to use in nearly any situation of how not to be."

"That isn't what I mean," she responded, her eyes flashing with anger. "You allow your prejudices rule you when it comes to Samson. You took an instant dislike when you met him and you allow your preconceived notions blame him for way more than he is responsible. I don't like the man he has become but at one time he was someone to admire. He was an brilliant mentor. He treated all, even mages, with respect and kindness. Before you arrived in Kirkwall, Samson was nearly expelled from the Order for smuggling letters from a mage to his lover. The _only_ time he was ever harsh was when blood magic was involved. He was a good man, an exceptional Templar. Claiming changed him, darkened his soul, turned him into the miscreant he is now."

"How?" Cullen's voice was rough, rasping from the fear of what he might become if he couldn't overcome his weaknesses. "How did Claiming change him?"

"Samson was the first in Kirkwall to have a Claimed. No one knew much about it, if there were limitations or how far the control extended. Samson was curious to find out, to experiment and research the boundaries. As was Meredith. It started simple enough. Quick, easy tests that did little to satisfy the curiosity. More complicated, often painful or humiliating, trials were conceived. With each test, Samson lost a part of himself. Becoming cruel, enjoying the pain he could inflict without repercussion. Through it all, Meredith encouraged him to greater and darker treatment of his Claimed."

Sula pierced him with a stern gaze, her words fierce and passionate. "All too soon, the man I admired, the Templar who at one time exemplified all that was good in the Order, changed to the man he is now. Samson came to believe apostates and Claimed were as loathsome as Blood mages and worthy of only harsh, callous treatment. That is what I keep forefront at all times. That is how I shield myself from the temptation. I would rather be too lenient with Kheilen than turn into Samson."

Cullen cringed, realizing that he was already at risk of following Samson down the dark path. He would become the same as Samson if not careful. Worse for Samson had not experienced what Cullen had. Cullen had endured Kinloch. He had been tortured for days by Blood mages and demons. He had pleaded for the annulment of the surviving mages, believing it better to murder all than risk even one Blood mage surviving. In Kirkwall he had wielded the brand of Tranquility, even when he doubted the veracity of the charges. He had stood silent as Meredith called for harsher and harsher treatment of the mages.

His lust stirred whenever Evelyn was near. He could barely condone her being around anyone but him. He was already jealous, possessive, irrational. She was timid, docile, wary of doing anything that might displease him. Yet he had jumped to the conclusion she was trying to run away when she strayed too far from camp. He'd nearly struck her. For the perceived defiance. For being a mage. For being a burden he didn't want. She was becoming a convenient target for all the chaotic emotions he had about mages. He loathed them, mistrusted them. He had denied her the use of magic the night he Claimed her and yet he still distrusted her.

His body was heavy with guilt, his stomach clenched in self loathing. "Sula," he said entreatingly. "We have to get to Kirkwall tonight. I need ... I need to get Evelyn somewhere she'll be safe. I need her safely in the mages' quarters."

Her eyes swam with concern, the light hand she placed on his shoulder compassionate. "Okay. We'll press on. I'm sure we'd all benefit from sleeping in our own beds tonight. Not to mention, the lyrium that awaits us there."

He nodded gratefully, following slowly behind as they headed back to the others. All objections were silenced at the mention of the lyrium, hot meals, and warm beds. The group set out with a new enthusiasm, Cullen leading the way. As he kept his eyes straining to see into the distance, he prayed to the Maker, to Andraste, for strength, for guidance, for forgiveness until the thick high walls of Kirkwall rose in front of him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - massacre (kept the description to a minimum).

Cullen hastily threw the reins to the sleepy attendant. Around him, his men were as equally speedy in retrieving their equipment and handing over their mounts to the waiting attendants. Everyone was eager to get to the Gallows, for the lyrium, for the comforts awaiting them. Everyone, that is, except for Evelyn.

She stood on shaky, stiff legs. Her head bowed with fatigue and her hands clenching in fear. Unlike during the trek to the city, she took no interest in the environment around her. Her fear and misery was palpable and Cullen felt guilt fall over him. No matter how often he vowed to keep her safe, to make her life as comfortable as possible, he could not grant her what she probably wanted most - her freedom. Her life would now consist of cold grey walls and hard stone floor.

He started to promise to himself that he would bring her outside as often as he could. That he would show her the beauty to be found in the Wounded Coast. That they would trek the trails of Sundermount. And then he brought himself up short. The reality was that Cullen's duties would not permit him the luxury of even a few hours to explore the areas outside the walls of the city with her. Nor could he risk spending time alone with the woman, even if for the sole purpose of bringing a smile to her face. She tempted him already, close exposure would only make it harder to resist.

He shifted his saddlebag to his shoulder as he walked over to her. He placed a light hand on the small of her back, saying, "We should go."

She nodded desolately, hiccupping a quiet, "Yes."

Cullen had started to lead her towards the small skiff waiting to bring them to the Gallows when one of the attendants spoke out.

"Knight-Captain, if you would wait while we wake the stable master. He insists on having a word with you."

"I'm sure he does," Cullen grumbled in response. The stable master was a talented man and the Order would be bereft without his assistance but the man did like to grouse for hours over the smallest grievance. "He can speak with me tomorrow."

"It's important, Ser. The other Templars ..."

Cullen quickly cut him off. "Then tell him to be at my office by the ninth bell." His stern tone left no room for argument. Cullen then gently led Evelyn towards the waiting boat. They piled in, the Templars' spirits lifting as the vessel began moving towards the intimidating walls of the Gallows. Sitting next to him, Cullen felt Evelyn shivers grow with each stroke of the oars. For a moment he forgot that he wanted to keep his distance from her when he found himself wrapping an arm around her, tugging gently until she rested against his hard armor. "You'll be warm soon enough," he soothed, pretending that her trembling was due to the cool, damp night.

There was the tiniest scrape of wood against wood as the boat berthed. Cullen scrambled out, turning to help Evelyn out of the bobbing skiff. Her face was pale in the orange glow of the sputtering torches and he could tell she was fighting back tears as she took in the daunting courtyard gate. He was surprised when she took a steadying breath before willingly moving to his side. Her face turned neutral, masking the terror he was certain consumed her.

When she took an unbidden step forward, his regard grew. As on the night she had been forced to drink the Claiming draught, when faced with something overwhelmingly petrifying she was somehow able to confront it courageously.

The courtyard was silent apart from for the popping hiss of the torches ringing the high walls. As the party moved farther into the courtyard, the air become oppressive, menacing. With each step, a pulsating glow of red grew and Cullen found his jaw reflexively clenching. His body tensed, reacting to the ominous air. There was a thrumming along his skin, the base of his neck throbbing, and his ears ached as if pummeled by a sound just beyond hearing.

Evelyn's steps faltered and her shaky fingers moved to massage her temples. "What is it?" she asked as she stared at the source of the glowing red menace.

"Knight-Commander Meredith," he answered gruffly. "What's left of her, that is." He averted his gaze from the statue, unable to face the evidence of his failures. As a Templar, as a protector of Kirkwall, as a servant of the Maker, he had been judged and found lacking. He had allowed hatred and mistrust to rule his heart. He had ignored the signs of Meredith's growing madness. Turned a blind eye to the increasing suffering of the mages in his care. Remained silent to the treatment of the Claimed within the Gallows' walls. The statue was his penance. A perpetual reminder that he must do better, must overcome his weaknesses. That he must use his Maker-given abilities to rebuild Kirkwall's Order, reshape it so that it returned to its original purpose of protecting mages and citizens alike. That the Gallows become refuge, not prison. That it become an example to the rest of Thedas and perhaps help to bring an end to the war raging within its borders.

But the ongoing battle for redemption could wait till the morning hours. For now, his priority was to get Evelyn settled into her new quarters. He placed his hand against the small of her back, saying, "You won't feel its effects inside the Gall... inside the Circle. Come on, a warm meal and a soft bed is waiting for you."

She gave him an uncertain nod before moving forward at the press of his hand. The group headed towards the corridor that would bring them to the Order's gate. As they neared the entry, all the Templars tensed, gazes shooting around, trying to identify what was raising their hackles. Cullen grabbed Evelyn, shoving her behind him. Declan and Asher automatically moved behind, providing another layer of protection for the mage.

Something was off. Cullen could feel it in his bones, his skin itched with the wrongness. He dropped his saddlebag to the side. Girding himself with his shield, he drew his sword quietly. Around him, the rest of the Templars were following suit. The alcove to the Order's entrance should have the ruddy glow of torchlight illuminating the way. Instead a deep darkness presented itself in front of them. And the silence ... foreboding, complete, sinister.

"Sula."

She nodded, moving quietly forward, trying to peer into the darkness. Her figure slipped into the shadows and Cullen held his breath for tense heartbeats until she returned.

"The gate is wide open with none guarding it. The Order's stall has been smashed, contents scattered everywhere," she whispered.

Cullen nodded grimly. "Declan, take Evelyn to the far corner by the storage cells. As deep in the shadows as you can get. Let no harm come to her."

"With my life, Ser," determinedly vowed Declan.

As the party moved forward, Declan signaled for Evelyn to follow, drawing her away from gates, leading her deeper into the shadows.

Cullen could only spare a brief moment for prayer. _Andraste, keep her safe._ He then had to put aside his worries about the mage who was being protected by a near recruit. The four Templars approached the open gate. Cullen took position on one side, Vilna at his back. Sula and Asher stood at the ready across from them.

"On my count," Cullen whispered. "One, two, three."

They rushed through the gate, Cullen and Sula leading the charge, stepping immediately aside so that Asher and Vilna could move in to block the exit. He was instantly assaulted by the stench of death, of blood, of decay. The silence was eerie, even at the late hour. There should be the clang of armored boots striking stone as Templars made their rounds. Their entrance should have been challenged by multiple voices. Instead he only heard the soft wisp of wind blowing though the open space.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, the barest of moon glow helping to illuminate the wide space. He simply couldn't process, couldn't bring himself to believe what he observed. From their shocked stances, neither could the three Templars standing to the side of him. "Maker! What happened?"

Cullen took a cautious step forward, moving to the closest body sprawled on the stonework centered in a large pool of blood. He bent down, feeling for a pulse. "Dead. Check the others," he ordered. They spread out, going from body to body, each time regretfully shaking their heads before moving on to the next.

Only half of the nearly dozen bodies had been checked when the sounds of rushing metal boots striking stone and steel swords being drawn came from beyond the gate opening. Cullen and the three Templars took up position, shields raised, swords at the ready, prepared to defend themselves against the coming threat. There was a scrabble of boots hitting the steps and the orange glow of torchlight seeped through the gate opening. Cullen shifted on his feet, ready to defend himself as the first figure burst through the archway.

"Aveline!" he cried as he recognized the Captain's distinctive bright red hair. "Hold your weapons," he directed his men as a squadron of Kirkwall's guards formed behind her. He lowered his sword but kept it at the ready. "Not that I'm ungrateful but what are you doing here?"

Aveline lowered her weapon, signaling for her guards to do the same. "Corfer and Kinston were assigned the Gallows as part of their patrol. They grew concerned when they found no Templars guarding the gates and investigated. Seeing the massacre, they immediately reported to me. I felt it best to bring a squadron to see what, if anything, we could do despite the traditional understanding that the Guard is not supposed to interfere with the doings of the Order but this is unprecedented. Do you know what happened here?"

He shook his head. "We just returned to Kirkwall but I can make a guess. For now, we need to see if any survived or if any of the attackers remain."

Aveline nodded grimly as she started shouting orders. Cullen did the same and soon the soldiers were methodically moving through the space, checking for survivors.

"Kheilen!" Cullen heard Sula sob as she dropped to her knees by one of the bodies near the back of the courtyard.

She was clutching the mage's head to her chest, rocking back and forth, by the time he reached her side. Cullen laid a consoling hand on her violently shaking shoulder. He waited until her sobs lessened before speaking. "Sula, I'm sorry for your loss. Why don't you join Declan and let me deal with this?"

She shook her head firmly. "There will be time to mourn later," she said as she gently laid Kheilen's head on the ground. "My duties as a Templar must come first. I'll take a group and start searching the mages' quarters. Hopefully we'll find some survivors."

He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, knowing that Sula needed to be active, needed to feel in control of something in order to deal with her loss. "Go ahead."

He took time to study Kheilen's body. Blood had soaked through the entirety of his robes, vicious cuts and deep slashes gave evidence of the deadly battle he had tried to withstand. His hands were blackened and blistered from the power of the spells he had cast in his final moments. Scorch marks covered much of the stonework around him and the heavy scent of ozone still clung in the air.

His attention then moved on to investigate a body lying nearby. The Templar's armor, once shiny steel, was a scorched, sooty black, the sword, still clenched in the man's grip, covered in drying blood. The smell of burned flesh nearly made Cullen heave. He rolled the body over and had to study the charred face a few moments before he could indentify it. "Acree. I should have known."

"You think this man responsible?" Aveline questioned from behind him.

Cullen nodded numbly. "He was part of a group who deserted several nights ago. Samson must not have been content with simply leaving. He had to return to Kirkwall to get revenge by slaughtering everyone left."

"It couldn't have been Samson," Aveline firmly replied. "He was alone when he arrived in Kirkwall yesterday morning and left a few hours later. This," she said with a wave of her hand around the courtyard, "happened sometime this evening."

"You seem certain."

Her eyes joined his in scanning the quad, taking in the entirety of the carnage. "Donnic observed him leaving with a large contingent of Templars and a handful of mages and Tranquil. With the number of horses they took, I doubt there's a mount left in the Order's stables. Donnic also noted that there were a number of heavily loaded wagons with the party as well. It was notable enough for him to write a report."

Cullen gripped his sword tighter. "There will be time enough to worry about who is responsible after the Gallows has been searched and the bodies have been dealt with."

Aveline turned to her men. "Terril. Raban. Go back to headquarters and grab every available man. Start hauling over wood so we can build pyres." She didn't acknowledge their nods as she turned back to Cullen. "Where should we start searching?

He didn't hesitate. "The Officers' wing. That's the most secure area. As soon as I'm certain it is clear, I've a mage that can be easily guarded there until the rest of the Gallows is checked."

"Donnic, Murrany, Kriz, with us."

Cullen led them to the thick wood door, opening it cautiously. One of Aveline's guards held up a lantern to illuminate the long hallway. The group checked every room methodically, finding each to have been torn apart, contents spread haphazardly. When they entered his office, Cullen began cursing loudly.

"What's wrong?" asked Aveline.

He knelt down in front of a heavy iron safe, the door wide open and its interior woefully empty. "They stole the lyrium and the gold," he answered as he crashed a fist against the thick metal.

He moved on to the room behind his office, astonished to find his quarters had been left untouched. Everything was just as it was when he'd left all those weeks ago to search for Hawke. "Thank the Maker for small mercies," he said almost bitterly. His hands were already beginning to shake, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. The near week of half rations of lyrium had been affecting him for days. Now, with the Order's allotment of the draught stolen, Cullen was close to ripping the Gallows apart stone by stone in search of even a single drop of the glowing blue fluid.

When Aveline said, "We'll check the rest of the rooms," Cullen barely heard her. His mind was whirling with ideas of how procure more lyrium. The Chantry was still in disarray. A clear line of leadership was nonexistent so issuing a requisition would be fruitless. There would be months of bureaucratic nonsense before the request was formally rejected. The black market was out. Even if Cullen knew who to approach, there was no gold left to purchase any. Perhaps he could appeal to Seeker Pentaghast. She would understand the dire situation. She could petition directly to the Divine for an emergency shipment, though that would still likely take several weeks.

"This wing is clear."

Cullen's head snapped up at Aveline's voice.

"We'll search the rest of the wings. You get the mage. I'll leave Donnic to guard the entrance. No one will get past him."

He nodded vaguely as she left with her men. Cullen reentered the courtyard to find the pyres well on the way to completion, the bodies laid out in neat rows, and every entrance well guarded. He made his way out the gate and over to the Order's storage cells. "Declan," he called out loudly, not wanting to surprise the young recruit.

Declan came out of the shadows guardedly, his stance alert and ready to defend himself. "Ser?"

There was a great weariness in his voice when he said, "Go help the others with the cleanup."

"Yes, ser!" Declan paused for a moment. "The storage cells were unlocked. Most of the equipment is gone. I put Evelyn inside the far cell. I thought that would be the best way to protect her."

"Good man. Go on, there's much to do before we can seek our rest tonight." Cullen walked on until he reached the last cell. The heavy iron gate groaned as he pulled it open. "Evelyn, it's safe now. You can come out."

She crept out of the darkness, her eyes anxiously rounded, her hands wringing together fretfully. Cullen winced at the deep bruises under her eyes and her swaying gait as she joined him. Evelyn was beyond exhausted, near the point of collapse, and being terrified anew only depleted her reserves more quickly.

Without thinking, he swept her up in his arms, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. "Do not look when we get to the courtyard. I'll get you to your room quickly. You'll be able to sleep undisturbed." He felt her nod of agreement as he carried her out of the cell.

When he stepped through the threshold of the gate, he heard Evelyn's gasp of dismay, her face turning quickly to hide in the crock of his neck. Within a heartbeat, he felt the hot splash of her tears flowing across his skin. He sped his steps, nodding gratefully to Donnic who held open the door that led to the Officers' wing. When he was in his quarters, he set Evelyn down gently. He lifted his hands, lightly cupping her pale face, thumbing away the stream of tears. "I know it will be difficult but try to sleep. I'll check on you later."

He dropped his hands and was turning away when she spoke.

"Is ... is everyone dead?"

He nodded bleakly. "Either dead or gone. You're the only mage left in Kirkwall's Gallows now."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderfully in-depth feedback by BushViper, I realized I had glaringly omitted why the Chantry permits Claiming. Then, thanks to Thinkfirst, I had screwed up the timeline of events when I corrected the omission. Plus pointing out that I had been confusing about who Hawke sided with. So after some quick editing to correct my mistakes, chapter 2 has been edited. In the conversation where Cullen and Evelyn discuss Claiming, there is now an explanation about why it was started. This chapter has also been edited in the conversation between Cullen, Cassandra, and Leliana to be less vague about Hawke and her choices.

Cullen carefully hefted Kheilen's body, placing it reverently on the pyre. Sula, her eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears, moved forward. She crossed the mage's hands over his chest, straightened out his robes, and ran a shaky hand through the long strands of his hair, carefully arranging each lock just so.

"He's with the Maker now."

She nodded stoically but otherwise did not acknowledge Cullen's presence. He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze before leaving her to say her final farewells.

His muscles were straining, near the end of his endurance. He had refused any help as he lifted each body onto the pyres. These were his men, the mages that had been under his protection. It was his obligation to place them upon the pyres. His duty to see them to the Maker's side. His atonement for failing them.

He moved on to the last two bodies. Acree and Pacey, two of the men who had deserted with Samson. Acree had likely killed and been killed by Kheilen. Pacey had been discovered in the mages' quarters with three other dead. _Why hadn't they returned to Kirkwall with Samson? Donnic had been certain that Samson arrived alone. And, Maker, why had they slaughtered everyone in the Gallows?_ Cullen wondered if he would ever find the answers.

He knelt down, searching their bodies for any clue and looking for any vials of desperately needed lyrium. He came away with a single strange looking draught. The liquid was red, darker and more viscous than a healing potion. Yet it pulsed with an inner light like lyrium. But where lyrium vials were cool to the touch, this flask felt blazingly warm, almost painfully so. He tipped off the stopper and took a careful sniff. It smelled like lyrium that had gone off, an almost sickening sweetness bathed in growing corrosion. He firmly pushed the stopper back in and housed the strange draught in the pouch on his belt.

He signaled to the guards standing nearby to dump the two bodies on the pyre. They were undeserving of his absolutions. He felt no overriding need to personally see them on their path to the Maker's judgment. He waited in silence until torches were set against wood, until logs took flame and oily smoke began billowing up to greet the rising sun before heading to the skiff that would carry him to Hightown.

The sound of his footfalls echoed in the spaciousness. The wide avenues of Hightown would remain mostly empty for several more hours, the nobility and the very rich finding it uncouth to rise before noon. Cullen spied a few servants scurrying about their duties but otherwise was left alone as trekked to the heart of the district. As he drew near the Chantry's current home, Hawke's former mansion, the peacefulness was disturbed with a cacophony of rubble being tossed, numerous hammers pounding nails, and multiple orders bellowed. His curiosity roused, Cullen strode past the Amell mansion to the site of where the magnificent Chantry had once stood.

Following the explosion, with no clear leadership left in the city-state, the skeletal ruins had been hastily shored up and left to deteriorate. Now the site was a beehive of activity. Workmen scurried over large blocks of stone, wrapping them in rope riggings attached to strong pulleys. Other were shoveling rubble into the multiple wagons situated around the Chantry shell. Another contingent was constructing scaffolding to enclose the few portions of walls that remained standing.

"Ya think ya ken da ya wool gatherin' sum place urlse? Sum er us git works ta do!"

Cullen spun quickly at the sound of the heavily accented voice behind him. His first impression was hefty rolls of parchment, so long that the figure behind them was obscured. Holding the parchment was a man, impatiently tapping one steel-toed boot on the brick alleyway. His eyes widened when he took in Cullen's armor with the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on the breastplate.

"Me apolgees, Ser Knight. Ye ken wool gather all ye like wheres ye are."

Before the man could scoot past him, Cullen said, "Hold a moment if you would, Serah. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Wes tearin' down te old Chantry sos a news one ken be built," he answered impatiently. "Nows I mussen gets ta works."

Cullen yelled out to the quickly retreating man. "On whose orders?"

"Ta news Gran' Cleric."

He stood there a few moments in stunned silence, his spirits lifting at the signs of renewal. A Kirkwall Grand Cleric finally appointed. The ravages of the old Chantry being hauled away so a new one could be built. If the Chantry was being rebuilt then perhaps so too could Kirkwall's Order. He would have to focus first on recruitment, carefully choosing through the candidates for people who would uphold the original intentions of the Circles. The Gallows could become a refuge for mages. Would become that haven if he had anything to do with it.

With a lifting spirit, his steps were not so world-weary as he headed back to Hawke's former home. Normally at this time in the morning, the sisters would be at prayers, bodies bent in supplication, voice beautifully mingling as they recited the Chant. When Cullen pushed open the door to the main room, he discovered a bevy of activity. When the Chantry had taken over Hawke's mansion, the interior had been left mostly intact. Now sisters were hastily covering rich chairs and sofas with heavy protective cloths. Workmen struggled to move the heavy wood cabinets and desks. Other sisters scurried from point to point, issuing random, and often conflicting, orders.

He stood there, waiting for someone to acknowledge him. When that didn't happen, he randomly grabbed one of the scurrying sisters. "I need to see the Grand Cleric."

She tore her squinting eyes from the list she clutched in her hand. He could practically see the cogs in her mind spinning as she studied his armor and the cape attached to his shoulders. "Knight-Captain?" she asked uncertainly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"As I said, I need to see the Grand Cleric."

Her hands fluttered nervously. "Oh. Of course. I'll fetch her personal secretary."

While Cullen waited for the secretary, he watched as Hawke's former home continued to be disassembled. Ornately carved furniture moved out, beautiful tapestries taken down and carefully rolled up, expensive vases and paintings covered and placed into large wood crates. There was a heaviness in his heart as he watched the signs of Hawke's occupancy disappear. She might have inadvertently helped Anders in his scheme to destroy the Chantry, not to mention permitting the murderer to flee afterwards. But she had come to love Kirkwall, had worked tirelessly to protect it. She had risked herself over and over on behalf of the city-state, nearly dying from the duel with the Arishok. It should not be so easy to remove the evidence of her life in Kirkwall. Though there was the red lyrium statue of Meredith which would likely stand long after the city crumbled into ruins, it was hardly a fitting tribute to Marion and her efforts.

A brother finally approached, weaving effortlessly through the mayhem. "Knight-Captain Rutherford, I am Brother Orbach, personal secretary to interim Grand Cleric Deblyn. How may I assist you?"

"It is imperative that I speak with Her Grace at once to update her on recent events."

"Certainly, Knight-Captain. Give me a moment to consult with the Grand Cleric. I am certain she will make herself available immediately."

Cullen tried to tamper his agitation as the brother climbed to the upper level. With a new Grand Cleric named, he would no longer have to go through the frustrating process of trying to get someone, anyone, to approve his requisition requests. And, Maker willing, he would depart from his meeting with a supply of lyrium.

He began to fidget as time passed, withdrawal rearing its ugly head once again. His headache was returning, its rough thrumming traveling from his temples to the base of his neck. His jaw tightened in reaction to the rolling of his stomach and he fisted his hands to keep from scratching deep furrows into his crawling skin. Only long-instilled discipline kept him from vaulting up the stairs to search for the lyrium stores.

Finally Brother Orbach returned. His calm facade remained though Cullen could sense frustration lurking underneath. When he spoke, the words were clipped. "I'm sorry, Knight-Captain. Her Grace is unable to meet with you today. She has instructed me to tell you that she will send a summons when there is an availability in her schedule."

Cullen could not believe what he heard. "The Grand Cleric _must_ see me! It is a matter of great importance. My men are dead. The mages slaughtered. All lyrium stocks stolen. The few Templars who remain will soon be incapacitated by the lack of lyrium." His passionate plea had grown loud and around him the workers and sisters turned to stare in interest.

Brother Orbach winced as his volume, turning to look anxiously towards the upper levels. He grabbed Cullen's elbow, leading him to the quiet vestibule. In a rushed whisper, he began, "Her Grace is..." The man's voice trailed off, lapsing into silence as he circumspectly made certain no one was close enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. "To be sure, Knight-Commander, I will do everything I can to get you a meeting by day's end. The members of the Order will not be left to suffer if I have anything to do with it. I will send word once I have convinced Her Grace to grant you an audience."

Cullen was of a mind to rush pass the sympathetic brother, to charge up the stairs, and systematically search until he found the Grand Cleric's location.

Brother Orbach tightened the hold he had on Cullen's elbow. "I would advise against what you are considering. Grand Cleric Deblyn is not a woman to challenge. She can be ... difficult if thwarted. Give me till the end of the day to persuade her to grant you a meeting."

Cullen nodded sharply, his fury making his movements jerky. "I'll await word at the Gallows." He turned, angrily wrenching open the door. The avenues of Hightown had begun filling while he'd been forced to cool his heels in the Chantry. He wove around servants, ignored the calls of merchants. The pounding of his headache matched the pounding of his boots on the brick alleyway.

He was still fuming when he stepped off the ferry. The lack of courtesy by the new Grand Cleric was unbelievable. _Never_ had a request by the Order's leader for an audience with the Chantry's representative been denied. Even the most mundane issues were dealt with immediately. He simply couldn't fathom her apparent indifference for the Templars' plight.

His angry stride skidded to a stop when he entered the Order's courtyard. Vilna was there, leaning back, bracing himself with a bent leg against a grey stone wall. His arms were crossed over his breastplate while he eyed Evelyn with open contempt.

The mage was at the courtyard well, struggling to pull up the water-laden bucket. By her feet sat the porcelain washing basin from Cullen's room.

Failing spectacularly, he tried to keep his irritation from his voice as he asked, "Evelyn, what are you doing?"

She jumped, the bucket she struggled with splashing water onto her ragged robes and over the soot covered stonework. Apprehension exploded on her face, an expression he'd seen far too frequently on her timid face since the night he had Claimed her. "I ... I ... Declan said I could fetch some water so I can clean up," her voice stammered fretfully.

His terse manner relaxed as he approached her, taking the bucket from her grip. "Of course you can. You can go anywhere within the Gallows that you like," he tried to assure her. He looked her over, frowning at her dirty face, her mangled hair, and the tattered robes that were now soaked through. "But wouldn't you prefer a hot bath?"

Evelyn refused to met his gaze, preferring to stare at her anxiously shifting feet. She whispered, "I don't want to be any trouble."

Cullen cut off the scoff that threatened to erupt. _Trouble? You certainly are that. Not to mention a responsibility I never wanted. Your presence as the sole mage amongst five lyrium-deprived Tempars will only lead to more difficulties. And Maker! I can barely control my lust when I'm around you. All I want to do is push you against a wall, pull up your clothes, rip off your smalls, and sate my craving in your tight cunt._ He sobered quickly. None of this was her fault. She hadn't asked to be caught and forced into a life of submission to his whims, hadn't wanted to be raped and brutalized by his own hands. And most certainly, she did not return Cullen's lust.

He dropped the bucket down the well and began drawing it back up. "A bath will help you feel more comfortable." He looked over at Vilna who was still watching the mage with angry eyes. "Go get a copper tub and put it in the kitchen," he ordered.

Vilna's eyes blazed as he pushed himself off the wall heatedly. "I'm a Templar. Not a servant for a Maker cursed mage," he spat, striding angrily off to his quarters.

Cullen would have admonished him, would likely have turned it into a physical altercation. The pulsing need for lyrium had him short-tempered and eager for a fight. Evelyn proved to be his saving grace. Her increasing fear was palpable in the large quad. Instead of storming after Vilna, he dropped a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders, the overriding fury melting away to be replaced with compassion and concern. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." His eyes fell upon the remnants of the burned pyres and dried pools of blood. _I won't fail you like I failed them._

"Declan!" His voice echoed in the deserted yard.

Within a few heartbeats the young recruit appeared at one of the multiple doorways leading off from the courtyard. "Ser?"

"Get one of the copper tubs and set it up in the kitchen. After that, start heating water."

Declan said, "I've already got the tub set up, along with a privacy screen. Just lit the fire and was about to start fetching water." With a soft smile at Evelyn, "I thought you would prefer a hot bath to cleaning up with a washing basin," he continued.

Cullen felt her relax slightly, noting she returned Declan's smile with a tentative one of her own. He nodded his approval. "Carry on." Looking down at Evelyn, "Let's get you some new robes and other supplies you need."

She followed him back to his quarters where he grabbed the ring of keys from his desk. _Maker, I hope they didn't raid the mage supplies._ He handed her one of the lit candlesticks from the sideboard while he took another. They descended down to the mages' quarters, the feeble light from the candles doing little to push back the looming darkness. She followed in silence, eyes warily skittering around with each step.

When they entered the grand library, Cullen noticed her footfalls slowing until they stopped altogether. He looked back, grinning at her awed expression. Her tiny mouth open in a perfect 'o', she gawked with delight at the row upon row of shelves packed with books. It seemed as if she'd forgotten his presence as she approached the nearest bookcase and ran an eager finger down the row of books. Evelyn held the candlestick closer as she keenly read the various titles. Fingers plucked at first one book and then another. Abruptly she straightened, looking over at him in trepidation. "I'm sorry," she quavered as she sped back to his side.

He chuckled. "You've no reason to apologize. I've yet to meet a mage who isn't enthralled with discovering new knowledge. It's probably not as impressive as Ostwick's library but I'm sure you can find a tome or two you've not read yet."

He was surprised at her suddenly dejected expression and even more bewildered when she tentatively spoke.

"Which sections am I permitted to read?"

"Any you like," he quickly reassured her. "Just as you can go anywhere within the Gallows' walls, you may read any book you wish. There are no restrictions. I could even have a desk and chair placed in the gardens. That way you could enjoy the sunlight while you read. Would you like that?"

She gave a noncommittal half nod. "If that is what you wish."

Cullen suppressed the desire to sigh. It was only natural that she would be hesitant to express an opinion, even in response to a direct question. Too many times he'd seen a Templar ask their Claimed a question, only to administer punishment for not replying in the way that was desired. He reminded himself that he needed to be patient with her, to show Evelyn that he wanted her to make requests and offer opinions. He wondered how long and how much of a struggle before he could overcome her reticence.

He smiled at her kindly, "For now, we'll get you some new clothes to change into after you bath. Afterwards you can spend as much time as you like browsing the library."

"Truly?" she eagerly asked, her face, for once, joyful.

"Truly," he answered with a smile as he led her to the storage rooms. The Maker was with him for every door was still firmly locked. He fumbled slightly as he placed the key in the lock and soon was pushing wide the door.

The storage room was set up logically and efficiently. Most mages, when brought to the Gallows, arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs. This room, as well as the one geared towards children and adolescents, contained everything that would be needed by a newly arrived mage. Cullen lit the sconces situated near the doorway, bathing the room in a cheery orange-yellow glow. He picked up one of the baskets stacked by the door, handing it to Evelyn, before taking one for himself. He moved over to the first cabinet. Inside was a series of large boxes, each box housing multiple robes of the same size.

"Come here," he said to Evelyn as he took a robe that he thought would fit. He held it up against her, tossing it to the side when it proved to be too large. The next box contained what seemed like it would be a proper fit so he began rummaging through it, selecting a robe in a deep green with gold accenting. He tossed it in the basket and reached in for another robe. This time a light blue with darker blue trimming was added. It wasn't until he was searching through the box a third time that he realized he had been selecting colors he wanted to see her in with no thought to what she might like. "Do you," he sheepishly stammered, "have a color preference?"

She allowed just a moment of surprise to show on her face before dropping back into a neutral expression. "No."

While he took the top robe from the box, now uncaring of the color, he told her, "The wardrobe behind you has sleeping shifts and, er, under things. Fill your basket with what you want."

As she complied, he moved on to the next cabinet, adding a dressing gown, a few drying sheets, several cleaning cloths, and a heavy shawl in case she should grow cold into the near overflowing basket. He set it aside and grabbed another basket from the stack by the door. As he moved over to a bookcase filled with carefully marked smaller boxes, he remembered the third storage room, the one containing all of the ingredients necessary for the making of potions and draughts. If he recalled correctly, there should be a significant amount of lyrium dust. He turned towards her with a hopeful eagerness. "Evelyn, do you know how to brew lyrium potions?"

She paused in the process of placing a sleeping shift in her basket, her face suddenly awash with humiliation, her fire-scarred hand clenching painfully tight. Her voice was shame filled when she finally answered. "Only the most trusted are permitted to brew lyrium."

Unsaid, but clear by its absence, was that Evelyn had not been counted among the trusted in the Ostwich Circle. As his hopes for an easy solution to the question of lyrium supplies were crushed, his curiosity grew. There was so much he didn't know about her or her life in Ostwick. She'd been cryptic about why she'd run from the Circle. Her hyper-vigilance of tracking the location of every Templar. The frustrating timidity that seemed more ingrained than a part of her natural personality. How she clenched her scarred hand and her expression became guarded each time Ostwick was mentioned. Her puzzling question about which books she could read. It all added up to a mystery. One glance at her rigid stance, the clenched fist, and her fearful eyes made him realize that solving the puzzle would have to wait. Pressing her now would only make her more terrified.

Nodding at the nearly empty basket in her hands, he said, "Take a few more sleeping shifts and under things There's no cause to be stingy." He picked up his own basket and moved onto the shelving unit loaded with smaller, well marked boxes. He pulled out several cakes of soap, an ivory comb, a brush made of stiff boar hairs. Just as he was moving on to the next cabinet, Evelyn spoke.

"I was permitted to work in the gardens collecting cuttings of the medicinal plants. I was assigned to make poultices and salves for minor injuries. And I was allowed to brew healing potions," her voice entreated, as if she were trying to raise her worthiness in his eyes.

"Those will be helpful skills here."

She added in a murmur, "The brewing of lyrium was restricted to Claimed mages."

"Oh." He gazed at her astonishment. "I guess that makes a sort of sense."

It was her turn to look amazed. "Is it not that way here?"

He shuffled over to another cabinet, rooting through its contents. "That wardrobe contains slippers," he indicated with a jab of his finger. "See if any fit." He dumped several sheets of parchment into his basket. After a moment's thought, he added the rest of the sheaf. Then a few inkwells and a handful of quills followed. "Kheilen was Claimed but that wasn't why he was the one who brewed lyrium for us. It was because, out of all the mages here, he was the most talented."

Her hand hovered in the process of adding a pair of slippers to her basket, an expression of confusion appearing for a moment before fading into neutrality.

Cullen waited, futilely hoping she might speak more of her time in Ostwick or on any subject for that matter. He sighed at her continued silence as he looked around the storage room. "Is there anything else you need?"

She gave a quick shake of her head, the basket she held already heavy in her hands.

He took up the other two baskets, handed one of the candlesticks to her before extinguishing the other ones and started to lead her back up to the courtyard. As they had earlier, when they reached the center of the library Evelyn's steps slowed until halting altogether. He looked back to find her expression one of indecision. She searched the darkness of the surrounding area, fretfully moving the basket from one hand to the other. Evelyn then took cautious yet determined steps towards him. With a rushed whisper and giving the impression she was revealing treasonous state secrets, she stammered, "About lyrium ... I ... I have studied the theories of preparing it. I only lack the practical application of brewing it. If you have the supplies, I could try to distill some." She then braced herself as if expecting to be struck for her revelation.

Again Cullen was confused and had yet another question to ask once she was more comfortable around him. Why would she be so terrified of having the knowledge to make something so vital to the Order? One of the purposes of the Circles was that mages could study their craft in safety. For those with the talent, the creation of lyrium draughts was a basic lesson. He smiled at her, hoping to quell some of her growing anxiety. "I would appreciate it if you would make the attempt. It would help immensely."

Evelyn relaxed somewhat at his assurance. "I'd like to refresh my knowledge before trying. I'm certain one of the books here has what I need." She started to move off to begin her search of the library.

He admired and appreciated her eagerness and though the need for the bright blue fluid was a constant thrumming that pulsed with every breath, her needs should come before his and the other Templars. He called her back with a chuckle. " _After_ you've had a chance to clean up."

With a longing look at the tome filled library, she nodded meekly and followed him up to the courtyard and back to the Officers' wing. Cullen opened the door across from his office and quarters. "This will be your room. Gather what you need and go take a relaxing bath."

He left her to dig through the baskets of supplies while he headed back to his own quarters. Impulsively Cullen moved to the dresser, opening the bottom drawer and pulled out a small, ornately decorated glass bottle. It had been an expensive purchase and one that had sat neglected long before Meredith's fall. On an impulse, one that was meant to serve as an apology to his sister, he'd bought it. He'd had every intention of sending it off immediately but had postponed because the sending of the gift meant that he would have to enclose a letter. And letter writing was not one of his talents so it had sat abandoned all this time.

He carefully cupped the fragile bottle in his hand and returned to Evelyn's new quarters. A blush grew on his cheeks, and as always happened when faced with speaking with a woman on anything of a personal matter, he began to stammer. "I, er, this is for you." He thrust the bottle at her. "It's orange blossom oil. My sister swears by it for helping to get tangles out of hair. You ... you should have it."

She tried to hand it back but he refused to reach for it. "It's too expensive. I can make do without it."

He ended the argument before it began by turning his back on her and decisively striding into his office. He made his point by firmly closing the door. Shortly after he heard her walking down the hallway and the opening and closing of the door that led to the courtyard. He released a huff of breath. _Maker! Why did I do that? It is one thing to make sure she has what she needs. To see to her comfort. But why the impulse to give her a gift. I want ... I_ need _to keep my distance and yet I'm drawn to give her an expensive present like I'm trying to court her._ He cut off the thoughts. There was much to do instead of wasting time over the mage he'd Claimed, the woman he needed to avoid as much as possible. He should organize an inventory of all supplies and equipment. The excesses could be sold, the profits used to purchase lyrium on the black market. He needed to pen a message to the Lady Seeker, informing her of the failure of his mission. He then needed to check on Sula though he doubted she was ready to talk. Perhaps schedule an appointment with Aveline to see if some of the Kirkwall guards could be assigned to assist with their duties. Five Templars would not be enough to deal with any dangerous apostates still present in the area _and_ guard the Gallows.

Further planning was cut off at the firm knock on the door. "Come," he said without much thought. The door opened wide to reveal Lady Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale framed in the entry. "I was about to send you a message," he said in greeting as they stepped into the office. "I have failed you. Hawke and Varric managed to evade me."

The Lady Seeker brusquely waved her hand. "That is of little import considering what has taken place here."

"You heard?"

"I may not have many agents in Kirkwall yet but even the few I have heard of the momentous events that occurred here yesterday," Sister Nightingale's silky voice answered. "I am sorry we did not discover the plot sooner so we could take action to prevent it," she added sadly. "I also heard of the loss of your lyrium stocks so managed to procure this for you." She gave him a small leather pouch.

His eager fingers tore open the pouch to find a dozen and a half pulsating blue draughts. Without thought to the two women in front of him, he hastily pulled out one, quickly thumbing off the stopper. It called to him, a plea he was unable to resist. He poured the fluid onto his eager tongue, the icy chill traveling down his throat to calm the churning firestorm in his stomach. Frosty energy raced along the blazing inferno that was his skin. He felt revitalized, renewed, reborn. His thoughts cleared, his focus sharpened. His strength returned.

Abashed at his lack of control, he lifted his gaze expecting to find disdain on the women's faces. Instead, the Seeker looked at him with compassion and empathy. Nightingale's face was carefully neutral, but not without understanding. "I thank you. We have been on half-rations for a near week."

The Sister simply gave a curt nod. "Sadly, someone bought out nearly all the lyrium available on the black market. This will need to suffice until I can find more."

"Knight-Captain," the Seeker began abruptly. Her voice softened to a more friendly tone. "Cullen, there is something we wish to discuss with you."

"Cassandra, now is not the time," Nightingale interjected sharply.

The Lady Seeker snorted in response. "When will it be the appropriate time, Leliana?"

She gave Cassandra a challengingly stare before sighing greatly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I suppose you are correct."

Cassandra turned her attention back to Cullen. "As you are well aware, the rebel mages and Templars are warring across the lands. If it is not stopped soon, it will rip all of Thedas apart. Her Most Holy is calling for a Conclave for the sole purpose of bringing this strife to an end."

Cullen nodded in agreement. It was well past time for the Divine to intercede. Too many lives had been lost already. Too many suffered in the war's wake.

"As you are aware, one of the reasons we are here is to discover Hawke's location," Leilana picked up. "She could be a calming voice, an entreating figure to bring the two sides together for negotiations. Mages will come at her call, to support a fellow mage, one who stood against Meredith's order to annul the Kirkwall Circle. Some Templars, those who disapprove of the harsher treatments permitted of the mages in their care and those, like yourself, opposed to Claiming will answer her summons. She will also have the support of other Templars for her outspoken opposition to the use of lyrium as a leash by the Chantry."

Cullen could see the logic and agreed to a certain extent. "Yes, that is true. Hawke is admired by members of both sides, yet also vilified as well. It could be a blessing from the Maker to have her as a spokesperson or it could assure the Conclave comes to nothing but more fighting and hostility. Plus Hawke won't be found unless and until she wishes to be. I am not hopeful anyone will be able to locate her."

Cassandra sighed. "It is a risk we must take. But finding Hawke is not the only reason Her Most Holy sent us here. Divine Justinia also instructed us to speak with you."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Why me?"

"Traditionally the Order has served as the Divine's army in addition to their duties of watching over mages, dealing with abominations and demons. With the dissolution of the Orders, Her Most Holy must create a new army, one that will serve to protect all attendees at the Conclave and enforce whatever decisions are made during it."

"Are you so certain the Conclave will be a success?" he asked skeptically. The disagreements between mage and Templar were ages old. The resentment, hatred, and distrust built up over generations. Cullen couldn't see how bringing both sides together at a negotiations table would put a quick end to the conflict.

"No," answered Leilana. "The Divine is a practical woman. If the Conclave is not successful, she is making preparations to call another Inquisition."

"I'm glad to see that Divine Justinia is finally taking steps but I still don't see what this has to do with me."

Cassandra, in her gruff manner, said, "We need someone to lead the Divine's army and if it comes to it, command the Inquisition forces. Her Most Holy wants you to be that person. Those Templars who are not swayed by Hawke's pleas will flock to the Conclave at your beckoning."

Cullen looked first at Cassandra and then Leilana, expecting that one of them would begin laughing at the joke being played on him. Why would they want him? He was a failure. He'd failed at Kinlock. He'd failed in Kirkwall. He had failed Meredith, Hawke, and a multitude of others. He couldn't sleep a night through without waking in terror. Maker's breath, he couldn't even wait until their meeting finished to gulp down the given lyrium. At their patient expressions, he realized they were sincere in the offer.

He had a duty to the vows he'd made to the Maker. He had an obligation to stay to protect the city-state. He had to atone to his fallen men by rebuilding and improving Kirkwall's Order.

"I'm sorry. I must refuse."


	8. Chapter 8 - Explicit and NSFW

Cullen woke suddenly, not because of any sense of danger nor from the horror of his all too frequent nightmares. It was more of a niggling sensation. An impression that he'd forgotten something, something rather important. He laid there, puzzling over the feeling, trying to determine what he'd failed to take care of during the day.

He'd checked on Sula, finding her withdrawn and still deeply in mourning. She'd told him in no uncertain terms to leave her alone. A tray of food and her daily vial of lyrium left at her door would be sufficient until she was ready to leave the sanctuary of her quarters. Cullen had wanted to stay, to offer comfort, to give her the support she had always given him but she had been emphatic, almost angrily so. He had reluctantly left her, promising himself that he would check on her later.

Following that he had distributed the lyrium, discovering that Vilna had cleared out his quarters, reducing the number of Kirkwall's Templars to just four. Asher had been sent off to make arrangements to restock the larder. Declan was given the task of inventorying the little equipment that had not been stolen so Cullen could decide what, if anything, could be sold for much needed gold. Following that he had bathed, relishing in washing off the weeks' old road dust and shaving off the heavy beard that had grown. He would have felt like a new man save for all the crushing tasks that remained.

In the late afternoon, a note from Brother Orbach had arrived. The message apologetic and sincere but clear in that Orbach had not yet been able to arrange a meeting with the Grand Cleric. Though the letter ended with the hopes that an audience would be scheduled the next day, Cullen had allowed himself an hour of pique in the form of decimating one of the training dummies. He had then finished his day by focusing on the arduous task of penning a full report to the Grand Cleric, hoping to impress on her the dire situation. Once he'd sent Declan off to deliver it, Cullen had retreated to his quarters for some much needed sleep.

Eyes staring up into the darkness of his room, the troubling feeling of something yet undone would not dissipate. As much as he wanted to simply roll over and go back to sleep, Cullen knew it would prove to be elusive until he figured out what was bothering him. With a sigh, he lit the candlestick on his nightstand and quickly dressed. As soon as he padded out into the hallway, he realized what had been concerning him. The door to Evelyn's room stood wide open, her bed empty with no evidence she'd even used it.

He felt a momentary pang of concern when he reached the courtyard. He had told Evelyn that she could go anywhere within the Gallows' walls but he hadn't actually Ordered her to remain within its confines. While on the road she'd been under the directive to not stray out of his eyesight without permission until they reached Kirkwall. That Order now no longer controlled her. Then, with a rueful shake of his head, he realized that Evelyn was simply too cowed to defy him in such a way. Not to mention he had given her the permanent Command to do nothing that reflect badly on him. Attempting to run away would certainly fall under that directive. She was still within the Gallows. It was simply a matter of finding her and there was only one place she'd likely be discovered.

He walked quickly through the empty courtyard, the stonework icy cold under his bare feet. As he reached the library, he was reminded of Kinloch and, for once, the memories were not of horror and dread. There was a wistfulness as he spied Evelyn seated at one of the many tables, a pile of tomes surrounding her, her head resting upon an open book, a quill loosely held in her fire-scarred hand.

How many times had he come across Solona in much the same manner during his night rounds at Kinloch Circle? Out after curfew, not for the purpose of creating mischief or meeting a lover in a dark corner, but to delve into secrets yet undiscovered among the bookcases, only to fall asleep in the middle of note taking.

It was the basis of their friendship and his later ill-fated infatuation. At first he would wake her harshly, with a string of gruff threats should he find her out after curfew again. Solona would give him a bleary, unapologetic grin as she collected her things before scurrying back to the apprentice dorms. Soon, the callous wakings became gentle ones. And instead of sending her off alone, he would escort her back to her dorm room, the two of them conversing quietly, the time to make the trek growing longer each night. Solona would ply him with question after question about the world beyond Kinloch's walls. Cullen would stammer and stutter his way through trying to describe the colors of a sunset, how rain felt falling on his skin, or the scent of roses.

And now he was finding Evelyn asleep, head resting upon an open tome much the same way as Solona. Evelyn's face was turned towards him, her expression peaceful and content, a look Cullen hoped to see more frequently. Now that she'd had a chance to clean up properly, he realized that she was pretty in an average sort of way. Her deep brown hair, drawn back in an unflattering severe bun, gleamed from the candle glow. Her skin appeared taunt, sharpening her already angular features. Her chin, her cheeks, her nose, too bony and pointed. Her mouth, though, was rather attractive with its full pink lips. His mind drifted unconsciously, wondering how they would feel stretched over his cock.

He ruthlessly suppressed the thought. Despite her status as a Claimed, he didn't want to think of Evelyn as an outlet for his sexual gratification. He didn't want to consider her a possession. He didn't want to push her onto his bed, heightening his own pleasure by pleasuring her until she was mindless to anything but his dick, his hands, his mouth. And he certainly didn't want to spend so much time trying to convince himself that this was the truth.

Perhaps he would be able if he could have simply gone with his original plan of avoiding her as much as possible. Time away from her would permit him to quash all the dark feelings of ownership and lust that stirred whenever he spied her. But the Maker, it seemed, had a sense of humor. There was no steering clear of her unless he neglected his obligation of seeing to Evelyn's care. And he was not one to shirk his duties no matter how undesired.

Cullen moved over to Evelyn, shaking her shoulder with a soft hand. She woke slowly, her mouth opening wide with a yawn, blinking up at him blearily. As soon as she realized it was him, she straightened suddenly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Come on. There's no need to sleep down here when there's comfortable beds to be found."

"But I should ...," she objected with a wave of her hand at the piles of books on the table.

Cullen abruptly cut off. "You should do as I tell you." He instantly regretted his sharp tone. His pitch more tender, he continued, "Come with me, Evelyn. This can wait until you've slept properly."

"But," she began before snapping her mouth shut. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to contradict you. Please don't ... I ..." She stood so quickly that her chair toppled over.

As he righted the chair and blew out the candle on the table, he said, "There's no need to apologize all the time, Evelyn. You've done nothing wrong. If that should change, I'll let you know." He had said it with a kind, almost teasing, smile but the mage took it as a severe admonishment.

She paled, her shoulders hunched and she seemed to fold in on herself, giving the appearance that she was much smaller. "I'll try to do better."

He gave a weary sigh as he placed a guiding hand on her back. "You're doing fine, Evelyn." Silence reigned as they climbed the stairs, Evelyn fidgeting worriedly the entire time.

"Were you able to find the information you needed in the library?" He hoped the question would calm her.

"Yes. I would like to review the process one more time and then I should be ready to attempt to brew the lyrium."

An edginess that Cullen hadn't even realized was there began to loosen its chokehold. Even with the store of draughts already on hand thanks to Cassandra and Leilana's efforts and the promise they would continue to try to procure more, he'd been apprehensive. The fear of running out had been bouncing around the back of his thoughts. With the chance of a steady supply, he felt the tension begin to seep away.

Evelyn tried to turn back towards the library. "I really should ..."

"You really should do as you're told," he snapped. He instantly regretted his outburst. She looked close to tears as she instinctively took a step back, eyeing his hands fearfully as if she feared she was about to be stuck.

"I'm sorry."

He nodded curtly, steering her once more towards the Officers' wing. When they were standing in front of the doors to their respective rooms, Cullen placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Trying to lessen some of her fears, he chuckled. "I think my hardest tasks will be to see you eat regularly and get proper sleep."

Instead of being comforted, she became more distressed. "I'm sorry for being a burden."

He couldn't bring himself to assure her that she wasn't. She _was_ a burden. A duty he didn't want. A temptation that was becoming more difficult to fight against. He dropped his hand from her face suddenly. The impulse to run his thumb over her full lips to see if they were as soft as he imagined was becoming nearly too strong to resist. "We should go to bed."

"B...b...bed? Yes, of course. I ... you ... that is ..."

He didn't understand her sudden uneasiness until she took several reluctant steps into his quarters. "Evelyn, wait! Go to bed. _Your_ bed in _your_ room."

"You don't want ...," her voice trailed off, unable to bring herself to finish the question.

Resentment flared at her sheer relief when he shook his head. His offense growing as she scurried to her room. He leaned back against the wall. _Oh, I want. Andraste knows how much I want._

OOO

Grey surrounded him. Unrelenting. Unbreaking. Above, to all sides, below, just an uninterrupted grey. No sound could be heard, even the whisper of his breath was muted. He took a cautious step forward, feeling nothing beneath his feet and yet standing on solid ground. With no clue as to where he should go, he picked a direction at random. It could have been an hour or a lifetime he wandered. There was no sense of time in the unending grey.

He turned to go back, surprised to find a hearth with dancing green flames suddenly appear. A thick rug was positioned enticingly in front of the fireplace. And standing in the middle of the carpet, a lush figure with honey-blonde hair cascading down her back. The woman turned and Cullen caught his breath at the loveliness of Solona's face.

Her hips undulated enticingly as her long legs brought her to his side. "You've kept me waiting," she said with a frown before wrapping a hand around his neck, drawing him down. There was no playful teasing. Solona immediately plunged her tongue into his mouth, stroking, caressing, dueling. She asserted her control, her dominance, her power.

She pulled back, a wicked smile gracing her sensual lips. "Good boy. Perhaps I won't be as severe with my punishment for your tardiness." Her grip on his neck tightened. "I hope you're well rested because I plan to take my fill of you. I want to find out just how talented that stammering tongue of yours can be. You're going to lick my pussy until my juices are a river on your face. You will keep at it until my clit is so sensitive from coming that I can stand no more. Then I will ride that precious cock of yours. I will ride it hard and rough to the point you are screaming for release." She palmed his crotch painfully. "But I will only let you come if you please me. If not, I'll leave you hard and wanting, leaking with your need, begging me to be merciful." She asked with a sinful gleam in her green eyes, "Does this excite you, Ser Knight?"

"No, Solona, it doesn't." He wrapped a fist in her blonde hair and lowered his teeth to nip harshly at the base of her neck. "How about you suck my cock instead?"

The long silky strands transformed into short spiky locks between his fingers. He pulled back, finding Hawke's brilliant blue eyes in place of Solona's deep green ones. Marion gave him a challenging smirk. "Make me."

Cullen growled, yanking Hawke to his chest, lowering his face to crush their lips together. She didn't yield, meeting every thrust of his tongue with one of her own. They tussled and clashed and fought to gain control. He slammed her against a wall that suddenly formed behind her. He forced a leg between hers, grinding his thigh against her loins. "You will suck my cock."

"Will I?" she taunted.

Hawke twisted and Cullen found himself being the one slamming into the wall. He grabbed her short hair in a painful grip. Tugging harshly, he pressed firmly down with his other hand on her shoulder. "Yes. Your lips will look so lovely wrapped around my dick."

She fought against him, tried to escape his resolute grasp. She slowly, oh too slowly, sank to her knees but she made him pay for each reluctant inch. Her sharp nails drew red, agonizing furrows through the defined muscles.

Then everything switched. The hands gentled and became hesitant. No longer was he leaning against a rough wall but seated in a plush, comfortable chair. Between his wide-spread thighs just inches from his hardening cock knelt, not Hawke with her defiant glare, but an uncertain and nervous Evelyn. His blood began to boil with an incredible yearning as it had not when Solona and Hawke had stood before him.

"Lift your chin," he instructed as he reached out to thumb the red rune on her Binding band. "You're mine. You're my Claimed," his voice pleased and possessive.

She nodded meekly and though her chin was lifted, she kept her gaze carefully on the ground in front of her.

"And what is your purpose?"

Evelyn licked her lips nervously. "To please you in any way you desire."

He hummed with satisfaction while tapping a finger against her lips. "Open." When she complied, he thrust a finger into her mouth. "Suck."

Her pale lips closed around his digit, her tongue instinctively licking and stroking the sensitive pad. His dick, already straining to be released, throbbed in need. He let out a low groan, already imagining the sheer bliss he'd experience having her bobbing on his cock. Her eyes were closed, giving full attention to suckling the finger he was slowly thrusting in and out of her warm mouth.

"Give me your hand." Without opening her eyes, she lifted her hand, not once pausing in her laving of his finger. He pressed her palm against the hard bulge in his trouser. Her gaze snapped to his heated one, nervousness and curiosity mingling in her dark brown eyes. He placed his hand over hers, moving it to rub up and down its hardened length, groaning from the heady friction.

There was a distinct pop as he pulled his finger from her between her lips. He scrambled to loosen the laces of his breeches, too impatient to draw things out any longer. He forced her hand into his pants, not permitting her to pull back when her fingers grazed along its heated shaft. Her touch was light, uncertain at first but with growing curiosity. As she tried to explore the smooth, soft skin covering his heated hard flesh, he slipped his breeches down his hips, giving her easier access to his cock.

He grabbed her hand again, forcing her fingers around his shaft. With a firm grip, he made her stroke up and down, setting a slow torturous pace. He released his grip, letting her explore and discover on her own. "Tighter," he instructed and grunted in pleasure when she complied. With each of his groans of pleasure, she grew bolder and more excited. When his hips began bucking forward with her strokes, she increased the speed, her fingers grazing across tantalizingly across the leaking tip.

It was glorious, the feel of her hands fondling him but there was more that he wanted. "Suck my cock, little one."

The grip she had on his cock loosened and she began to pull back. He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her face into his lap. "Do as you're told when you're told to do it," he Ordered.

Her lips opened, wrapping around the head of his shaft. Cullen thought he'd never seen anything so alluring. His Claimed, kneeling obediently in front of him, her mouth wrapped wide over his dick. He nearly came at the sight. She sucked him in slowly, trying to adjust to his width. He couldn't keep his hips from bucking forward, deeper into her moist warm mouth. Her tongue danced around his shaft and he gave a guttural groan. His enjoyment transforming into her eagerness to please. She became bolder, lifting a hand to gently fondle his balls, her sinful tongue swirling around his head. He bucked again, choking her. She didn't stop sucking him but her eyes tried to convey her apology.

He smiled and ran a soothing hand down her hair. "Don't worry, little one. That is something we will work on. We'll keep practicing until you can take my full length." He kept petting her, fingers twining in her hair, pulling a few tendrils from her severe bun. "For your first time, I'm very pleased with your efforts."

Her eyes shown with pride and she doubled her efforts on his cock. Struggling to take more into her eager mouth, she hummed happily at his praise.

The vibrations from her humming proved to be his undoing. He shoved her away from his cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft. A few hard thrusts and he was coming. He could not be more pleased with the vision of Evelyn wearing his collar and her cheek painted with his seed.

OOO

He'd woken that morning already stroking his raging erection before his eyes were even open. The intense orgasm had left him gasping for breath and with a lethargy that threatened to lull him back to sleep. Instead he had berated himself for his lack of control while he wiped his hand clean. Then he had worked out his anger by polishing his armor to shiny perfection. It had to stop, this obsession of his. He didn't want a Claimed, didn't want the temptation that came with having one, didn't want his Claimed submissively knelt at his feet waiting for his orders ... yet he obviously did.

Cullen subtly shifted his weight to his other leg. As he had been for the past two bells, he was standing, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly unmoving in the Chantry's antechamber. There was not much to draw his attention which left his mind much too free. His mind refused to practice the report he was to make to the Grand Cleric, instead his thoughts kept drifting to the one person he wished to ignore. He wondered if Evelyn had remembered to eat, if she had chosen to wear the deep green robe that he thought would compliment her complexion. Was she in the library pouring over the tomes or was she perhaps taking a break from her research and enjoying the Gallows garden? Did she wonder at his absence? Did she think of him? Was he invading her dreams as she was his?

If he had not been standing in the Chantry, he would have let loose a scoffing laugh. The idea that Evelyn would ever think about him for any other purpose than to figure out ways to avoid his attention was ludicrous. And if she could see into his thoughts, experience his dreams, she'd faint from terror.

The hour bell rang, signaling that he'd been kept waiting for over three hours. His self-directed anger and irritation had already started to refocus on the Grand Cleric. He had received a missive, worded in such a way that implied Cullen had been negligent in not reporting sooner and that he should present himself immediately. He'd stormed his way out of the Gallows, working hard at keeping his temper in check. When he'd arrived at the Chantry's doors, he been instructed by a harried sister to wait for the Grand Cleric's convenience. As the time passed, Cullen's frustration simmered. Never had the leader of Kirkwall's Templars been treated so callously. Courtesy and tradition dictated he should have been seen immediately, should actually have been seen the prior day, not kept standing in the antechamber like some fancy ornament.

Finally he heard a flurry of movement coming from the audience chamber. The door to the anteroom burst open, a large number of men and women carrying heavy bolts of fabrics swarmed by him. From the audience chamber, Cullen heard a woman's nasally voice admonishing, "I expect you to bring a better selection by day's end. Remember, I am the Grand Cleric and must be clothed appropriate to my status. What you brought is more appropriate for a Chantry mouse."

There was another flurry of movement. Another group, this time carrying fabric swatches, sheets of drawings, and strings with knots at various points along their lengths, swarmed through the doorway. Following behind, with a modest gait, appeared Brother Orbach. He gave Cullen a slight bow and with an extended hand towards the door said, "Her Grace will see you now."

Cullen studied Orbach for a moment. Under the man's neutral expression, he noted fine lines of irritation on the brother's forehead, the slight flare of frustration in his eyes. He gave the man a curt nod before striding into the audience chamber. The room had changed dramatically from the day before. In place of the inviting desks, sofas, and chairs stood a high imposing dais with a gaudy throne-like chair at its center. And Cullen finally saw the woman who was now the head of Kirkwall's Chantry.

At first glance, she was an unimpressive looking woman. Short, mousy brown hair surrounded her round jowly face. Deeply etched wrinkles bordered her squinting brown eyes and her robes stretched unattractively along her dumpy figure. Cullen strode forward, dropping down to one knee when he reached the dais, his head bowed low over the arm crossing his chest.

"Grand Cleric Deblyn, may I present Knight-Captain Rutherford of the Templar Order of Kirkwall," Brother Orbach intoned beside him.

"Your Grace." Cullen stayed knelt, waiting for her acknowledgment. Silence prevailed and his neck tingled in warning from the unfriendly glare sent his way.

Her voice, nasally and grating, finally rang out. "Why am I being bothered by a mere Knight-Captain? Why is the Knight-Commander not here?"

Brother Orbach cleared his throat and took a step forward. "Grand Cleric, Knight-Commander Meredith is no more. Knight-Captain Rutherford has been serving as the leader of the Templars since her fall." Even with his head bowed, Cullen could sense the scathing glower shift from him to the brother. "Ser Rutherford has been offered the position of Knight-Commander several times. He continues to refuse the promotion."

"Ah, I see." Her Grace did not bother to hide her delight from that information. "Orbach, We must make finding _suitable_ candidates a top priority."

Cullen, still knelt in supplication, did not need to guess her meaning. The Grand Cleric would find a replacement less concerned about devoutness to the Maker, and more of a 'yes man' to whatever orders she issued. There would be a new Knight-Commander who would never question the Grand Cleric's decrees. She was a bully who wanted a group of thugs to enforce her rule. It was in direct contradiction to what he envisioned for the rebirth of Kirkwall's Order.

He stood suddenly, gaining more of her ire for not waiting to be recognized. "Grand Cleric Deblyn, the matter of _suitable candidates_ ," he countered, "can wait. There have been developments which I must bring to your attention."

She sneered, her round face taking on a rat-like appearance. "Yes, I read your report, Knight-Captain. _Your_ leadership has been disastrous and a disgrace to the Chantry. It was under _your_ command that the faithful members of the Order were slaughtered, that the stores of gold and lyrium were stolen. Lyrium is a valuable commodity. It is not to be doled out to an incompetent who permits dissension, desertion, and thievery. And yet you expect to be rewarded for your ineptness. In your report, you actually had the audacity to request that I release additional lyrium. Your request, by the way, is denied."

"My men will suffer without it!"

She gave an unconcerned sniff. "As Andraste suffered on the fire, so must we suffer in devotion to the Maker."

"Yes, your suffering in dedication to the Maker is inspiring to all." Cullen could not keep from snapping back, his rage at her apathy over the Templars' plight finally loosening his tongue. "Fine silks to swathe your body. Rich and plentiful meals. The Maker must surely be pleased with the evidence of your devotion."

Her eyes flared angrily and when he turned to leave, her foot stamped furiously. "I have not given you leave to depart! There is another matter we must discuss!"

Only his years of ingrained respect for Chantry leadership kept him in his place, though he could not bring himself to lower his head with the expected respect.

Grand Cleric Deblyn did not miss his small sign of contempt for her authority. She reached out an imperious hand and grabbed a parchment sitting on a nearby table. She read it over a moment, drawing out the time in a failed attempt at putting Cullen in his place. "I have received reports," she began in a haughty tone, "of a Blood mage in the old Dalish encampment. You are to take your men and deal with the situation."

"We will need lyrium."

" _If_ you are successful, I may consider an advance from next month's allotment."

His voice rumbled dangerously. "You expect us to deal with a Blood mage with our powers weakened from lack of lyrium? All for a _possible_ advancement which would leave us with a continuing shortage. Am I understanding you correctly?"

Her condescending sneer grew. "At least you have intelligence enough to understand the situation. The Templars in Kirkwall have overstepped their proper place. I will see that is corrected." She turned from him, an uncaring hand waving him away. "Gather your men and see to your duties. You are dismissed."

"Our ... proper ... place." Cullen snapped out each word through gritted teeth. "And just what is our proper place? Groveling on our bellies, licking your hand in supplication for every one of your abuses?" He drew his sword slowly, the sound of metal scrapping metal filled the audience chamber. He held it aloft, taking no notice of her look of alarm, his attention instead captured with watching the candle glow bounce off the surface of the shiny blade. The Maker was giving him a sign, pointing him in the direction he should go.

With a courtly bow, he said, "I must thank you, Your Grace. You have shown me that it is time for _this_ dog to break his leash." He flung his sword to clatter by her feet. Cullen then turned, marching away, ignoring her screeching demands that he return. When he reached the wide open sky of Hightown, he felt as if a crushing weight had been removed from soul. Across the open plaza, he saw Cassandra and Leilana heading towards the Chantry.

Within heartbeats, his lengthy stride brought him to their sides. "I have reconsidered. If the offer is still on the table, I will serve as Divine Justinia's Commander."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning - mentions of emotional abuse.

" _She_ actually thinks she has the authority to issue commands to me?" Cullen heard Cassandra's contemptuous rumble even through the salon's thick door.

He paused in the process of opening the door, hearing Leilana's answering chuckle.

"I believe she understands that blunder now. Having two people draw swords on her in a single day must have been an eye-opening experience. Deblyn has always been one to overreach herself but I believe she is starting to understand the enormity of her missteps." Leilana's voice raised suddenly. "Don't you agree, Commander?"

He sheepishly stepped into the room, cheeks crimson from being discovered eavesdropping. The salon seemed packed with people. There was a servant angling a straight back chair near the long table at the center of the room. Others were setting up a heavy easel under the direction of a fussy man complaining about the lack of natural lighting. Along the periphery of the large room stood several servants, all poised with quills ready to scratch ink across parchment held on thin flat pieces of wood.

"Good morning, ladies." Cassandra was scowling. He hoped that he wasn't the cause of her displeasure. Leilana's eyes danced with mirth. He was, without doubt, the source of her amusement. He cleared his throat, tamped down on the embarrassment, and joined them by the table. "Her Grace is displeased?" he felt a surge of gratification, his anger from the previous day still had not dissipated.

Leilana's jollity grew. "You have a talent for understatement, Commander. When we last saw Deblyn, she was practically frothing at the mouth. Between you resigning in a most spectacular manner and Cassandra refusing to have you removed from the Gallows, she is having a very bad week." She ended with a pleased chuckle.

Cullen felt a moment of panic. He had not considered the repercussions of his hasty decision. Now that he had quit the Order, he had no right to stay in the Gallows. He supposed he could rent a few rooms at The Hanged Man though it would not be convenient. Still he'd be sailing out in a day or two, did it really matter where he rested his head in the meantime?

Cassandra gave a disgruntled snort. "I still do not understand why it was thought wise to assign her here."

"Because, despite her faults, and she has many, Deblyn is excellent at organization and will get the rebuilding of Kirkwall's Chantry completed ahead of schedule and likely under budget. Mostly due to the fact that her caustic personality makes people work quickly in order to be done with her. Once it is complete, she will be reassigned elsewhere."

Cassandra's scowl softened slightly. "Do not be concerned, Cullen. I informed Deblyn that you now serve as Commander of Most Holy's armies and have every right to billet in the Gallows for as long as you need, as well as commandeer any equipment as you see fit."

"It will not be for long," he responded as he spread a map on the table. "In two days a ship is sailing to Jader. From there I can skirt the edge of the Frostback Mountains before cutting over to Haven." He trailed his finger along the map, indicating his intended route. "Have changes of horses at these locations," he stabbed at the points he'd marked after careful consideration the previous night, "and I can be in Haven in two weeks. Two and a half at most."

Across the table, Cassandra and Leilana exchanged a pointed look. Cassandra's fingers tapped impatiently against the map "I do not think you have considered the extent of the tasks that lie before you."

From the easel, the fussy man interrupted, "I am ready, Sister Nightingale. If you could," he ended with a wave of his hand at the lone chair sitting by the table.

"Yes, of course." Leilana moved to stand behind the chair. "Commander, if you would have a seat."

He threw her a puzzled look as he lowered himself onto the chair. As soon as he was seated the man moved from the easel, studying him with a critical eye. "Raise your chin. Turn your head a little more to the right." Cullen complied, still unsure what was going on. "Good. Tilt your head slightly. A little more. Stop! That is perfect. Now don't move!" The order was issued with such intensity Cullen was reminded of a field sergeant.

Cullen rolled his eyes to the side, catching the women just at the edge of his vision. "What is going on?"

"Foolishness," Cassandra said with a snort, "is what this is."

Leilana smiled mysteriously. "Nonsense, Cassandra. This is a momentous occasion and must be captured for prosperity's sake. Do not concern yourself, Commander. Just sit there and look pretty."

He started to object, his cheeks flushing anew but Cassandra quickly sidetracked him. "Forget this nonsense. To the business at hand, while we admire your eagerness to get to Haven, your role as Commander will entail far more than simply showing up at Haven and pointing in a direction to send soldiers. There is much that must be put in place before that."

"Such as?"

"Traditionally, the Order served as Most Holy's army," Leilana answered.

Cullen found himself growing irritated. "Yes, I'm aware of that which is why you asked me to lead her new army."

The Left Hand grinned at his snappish attitude. "With the loss of the Orders, we have also lost all of the support services as well."

His irritation stilled and then dissipated. A realization of the crushing vastness of the task ahead settled in its place. "Which means, in addition to recruiting soldiers, we need a network of armourers, bowyers, fletchers, tanners. Farmers to supply adequate amounts of food. People to produce enough hardtack to feed the soldiers. Carters to move supplies and equipment. Ingredients for poultices and healing draughts. Healers to treat the injured and sick." He sat quietly, adding item upon item to the growing list of things that must be addressed before he could actually lead the currently non-existent army. His first task would be to look for a talented Quartermaster to assist him.

At the edge of his vision, he saw Cassandra moving from the large table towards him. In her hands she held a great map, a series of differently colored marks etched onto its surface. She stepped next to him, angling the map so he could more easily see it with his head held in the awkward position.

Almost immediately, the man by the easel called out. "Lady Pentaghast! If you would," he fussed with an agitated wave of his hand.

She looked confused for a moment. "Oh, yes. Of course," she muttered as she moved quickly to Cullen's other side so that she was no longer blocking the view from the easel. "It would be a lost opportunity to have you travel straight to Haven from here. Instead of sailing to Jader, we propose you start in Amaranthine. From there you can take the North Road first to Crestwood, then on to Redcliff, with stops at the smaller towns and villages along the way, and finally to Haven." As an afterthought, she added, "There is a ship leaving for Amaranthine next week."

Leilana walked over. "We need to put considerable effort into recruitment and who better to do that than the newly appointed Commander of Most Holy's army."

He stared for a moment at the map, the extent of what they were proposing sinking in. "But that will take months!"

Leilana chuckled. "Then it is good that the Conclave is a year away. Do not be alarmed, Commander. You will have assistance. My people will have everything set up before you arrive at each of the recruitment points. You will send regular reports on the numbers you recruit, what supplies you need and cannot procure yourself and anything else Cassandra and I need to know. When you reach the next leg of your journey, you will have the armor, weapons, training equipment, and necessary supplies waiting for you."

He studied the carefully marked map Cassandra held in front of him, considering the plan they had presented to him. As much as he was ready to get on with the next phase of his life, as much as he was eager to be in Haven and begin formulating how to prepare for the Conclave, it was clear that there were many steps that must take place before that could happen.

The delay in departing would also give him time to come up with a solution to the problem of what to do about Evelyn. There was no question of her coming with him. The journey would be hard and trying for the mage and he would be hard pressed to keep her safe in what could potentially be a war zone. He could look for a modest, comfortable home to rent for her with Sula to keep watch over her. All in all, the best solution. Sula would not want to leave the only home she'd ever known and with Evelyn half of Thedas away, she would no longer be a temptation for his dark lust.

He looked at the two women and then back at the map. "Amaranthine it is."

"Good," Cassandra replied. "And what of your men? Will they be joining you?"

"They are all good loyal men. Well trained and disciplined. I would be proud to have each of them join me but I believe they will choose to stay in Kirkwall. When we are finished here, I plan to speak with Aveline. She has mentioned that having a Templar or two would be beneficial. I'm certain she'll offer any a position in the Guard."

Leilana nodded in agreement. "Then the only other matter we must address today is the issue of lyrium. Deblyn refuses to release any to us without instructions directly from Most Holy's hand. My agents have been unable to find any available on the black market in Kirkwall. You may need to ration your supplies until you get to Amaranthine."

At the mention of rationing, Cullen's skin began to crawl, his breath catching in a panicked choke. Then it eased. Evelyn was trying to brew a batch of lyrium, perhaps it would be complete in time. And, during the journey to Amaranthine he would be too distracted by seasickness, judging from his other journeys at sea, to worry much about lyrium. "It will have to do.

"Speaking of lyrium," he said as he dug in the pouch hanging from his belt. He had spent the night studying the strange red lyrium, combed through decades of the Orders' records in the hopes of finding some reference to it. In the end, the search had proved futile. He hoped that the Right and Left Hands might have some clue. "I found this on one of the men who assaulted the Gallows." He held out the oddly pulsing red phial he'd found on Acree's body.

Cassandra looked at it inquisitively. "It is lyrium?"

Cullen nodded. "Of a type. I've never seen anything like it."

Leilana took the glass tube from his hand and held it up towards a torch. "Nor have I." She tilted the vial, watching the pulsing glow change as the liquid shifted. "I will get my agents on this immediately. Perhaps it will lead us to the reason the Gallows was attacked."

He nodded, saying yet another silent prayer for his fallen comrades. "If there is nothing else, I should start making preparations."

Leilana walked over to the easel, giving the parchment a studied stare. She nodded, her lips lifting in a pleased smirk. As she carefully rolled up the parchment, she said, "That is all for today. We can meet in a few days to finalize plans."

OOO

The sun was sinking low, leaving the sky a beautiful blend of blues and pinks, when he finally returned to the Gallows. Cullen felt elated for the first time in a long time. The meeting with Aveline had gone well, though it had been bittersweet. He would miss the stalwart Guard Captain who had never wavered in offering her support and loyalty. And knowing that any of his men would be accepted into the Guard should they decide to stay in the city-state had lifted a heavy burden from his shoulders.

He wandered into the kitchens, relieved to find Sula there. Since losing Kheilen, she'd been withdrawn, refusing to leave her quarters, or even to speak other than to demand to be left alone. She sat there, her face wan, listlessly stirring a spoon through a bowl of thin soup. Her face was awash with grief, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, her body bent in mourning.

Sula was always so willing to share her happiness, her joy, her elation. She practically giggled, laughed, and teased her way through life. When it came to sadness, disappointment, or melancholy, she was loathe to disclose it, choosing to keep those emotions hidden away from others. Cullen had no doubt about the moment she spied him standing in the entry. He could practically see her wrestle her anguish into a tiny box, slam the lid closed, and sit atop it for good measure. She gave him a brief smile before turning her attention to chasing a potato through the soup.

"How are you?" he asked as he took a seat across from her.

She shrugged while stabbing the potato with her spoon.

"Sula," he began with sympathy. "I'm sorry about ..."

She cut him off with a stony glare. "Don't! Just don't."

He sighed and broke a chunk off the loaf of bread sitting on the table. "As you wish. Just know that I'm here for you."

She gave him a clipped nod and then pushed the bowl of soup away. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, Sula staring unseeingly at the wood surface of the table while Cullen tore the chunk of bread into tiny pieces.

Finally she released a deep breath. "How is Evelyn settling in?"

He leaned forward, placing his elbows at the edge of the table. "I actually want to speak with you about her. I've quit the Order and will be leaving shortly to lead Divine Justinia's newly formed army."

Sula's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You don't do things by halves, do you? Head of Most Holy's army. Quite the promotion. There is no one in all of Thedas better suited."

He shifted uneasily, still questioning if this was all a big mistake. His life had been a series of failures so far. Judging by his history, this would likely end badly as well. Still, it felt like the Maker had set him on this path. He prayed that this would not end in disappointment as everything else had.

"Thank you," he mumbled, hopeful her confidence would prove true. "I've made arrangements with Aveline for you, Declan, and Asher. If you choose, she will happily accept you in the Guard."

A shadow of displeasure flashed across Sula's face. "I'm not going with you?"

"Honestly, I didn't think you would want to leave Kirkwall. And I was hoping you'd help me with the problem of Evelyn. I've found several houses in Hightown for rent, all comfortably furnished and large enough for you and Evelyn."

Sula's displeasure morphed into annoyance. "So, what I am to understand, you want me to stay behind and babysit your Claimed while you waltz off to save the world. Is this what you're proposing?"

"It's a reasonable plan, Sula," he defended. "You'll be able to stay in Kirkwall, continue to protect it by serving in the Guard, and Evelyn won't cause you any problems. I'll send enough money each month to cover the rent and anything the two of you want. You'll have a comfortable life, purpose from your work with the Guard, and, ..." His voice trailed off uncomfortably.

"And?" she asked.

"And I won't have to be bothered with Evelyn."

Her face became icy, fury starting to peek through. "Bothered? Bothered! What has that poor girl done to deserve this attitude?"

Cullen's festering emotions exploded. His persistent self-loathing for raping Evelyn the night he Claimed her, his anger at the Chantry for requiring an apostate be Claimed when found, and the ever growing lust he felt, not for the woman, but the Claimed he now possessed coalesced and found a far too convenient target in the demure mage. "Why shouldn't she bother me?" he yelled back. "Evelyn is nothing more than useless baggage and I can't be burdened dragging her sorry ass across the length of Thedas!"

Sula gave a soft gasp, her hand moving to settle over his clenched fist.

Cullen turned, following her horrified stare. Standing in the center of the doorway stood Evelyn. The excitement and happiness shining on her face crumbled into intense hurt only to be replaced by her ever present mask of neutrality. For a heartbeat she stood there, clenching and unclenching her scarred hand before disappearing from view. He could hear the quiet slap of her slippers on the hard stonework as she sped away.

Shame washed over him. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a low groan. A sharp punched landed on his arm and he looked up to find Sula's livid scowl.

"Go and apologize to her!"

He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room. "It's better this way. Now Evelyn will avoid me as she should."

A flash of puzzlement passed over her face. "Avoid you? Why should she need to avoid you?" He'd never been able to hide anything from Sula. There were even times he wondered if she could read his thoughts and this time proved no different. Understanding settled into her gaze, her fury exploded. "You have got to be kidding me! You're acting this way because you _want_ her? If it's such an issue, take her to your bed. No one would think anything of you bedding your Claimed. At a guess, even Evelyn expects you to fuck her into tomorrow on a regular basis."

"No!" His jaw tightened threateningly. "I raped her once. I won't do it again. I'll not touch her without her consent."

"And just how in Andraste's soppy knickers are you ever going to get her consent treating her the way you are?" She glared at him, long and hard, before she began to stalk out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

She turned back, crossing her arms defiantly. "To check on Evelyn. _Someone_ should."

"She is my Claimed. You _will not_ interfere!"

Her glare grew. "You are an unmitigated ass! You want me to stay in Kirkwall so I can watch over her but you don't want me to interfere? You can't have it both ways, Cullen!" She took several harsh breaths before continuing with a voice laced with scathing sarcasm. "Fine! I won't interfere but I'm also not staying in Kirkwall so you will just have to take care of your _useless baggage_ yourself _._ " She took a few steps to the doorway before looking back over her shoulder. "I do have some advice for you though. Start thinking with the head that's not in your pants or, by the Maker, I'll make you regret it!"

He stood there filled with shame. Shame for lashing out, shame for the hurtful words he hadn't meant, shame for the fact his cruelty had crushed Evelyn's joy. He was angry with himself, angry with the Chantry, and even angry with the Maker but that was no excuse for taking it out on her. The only thing she'd done was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, forcing the circumstances of her Claiming. She was undeserving of his abuse.

He searched for her, first in her room and then the library, finally finding her holed up in the brewing room. Her back was to him as she clenched her fingers on the edge of the brewing table. Her head was bowed, her body hunched, and Cullen could feel her misery across the wide room. He stepped awkwardly into the space, searching for the words that would properly convey his remorse.

At the sound of his movement, she straightened, fingers disappearing from his view as she frantically scrubbed at her face. Her voice was subdued when she said, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Please don't punish me. I'm really sorry and I won't do it again. I only," her voice caught in a hiccup before continuing, "I only wanted to let you know the lyrium will be ready once it finishes diluting. Three days at most."

He stepped towards her, urging her with a gentle hand to turn and face him. As it was whenever they spoke, Cullen was confused by the mage's words. "Why would I punish you? You did nothing wrong. Evelyn, I'm the one who owes you an apology, not the other way around. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Her face whipped up, his wretchedness growing at her red-streaked face and the tears welling in her brown eyes. "Why would you apologize? You only spoke the truth. I'm stupid, and worthless, and I can't do anything right. You're just too kind to tell me so."

Cullen wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug, nestling her head under his chin. It pained him to hear her speak of herself so but it hurt even more to hear her say it in such a matter-of-fact, accepting tone. Not unlike when he had tried to apologize for raping her. "I've been anything but kind to you, Evelyn. I've abused you, threatened you, said things I didn't mean. You have been undeserving of all of it. You're not stupid or worthless. And you certainly are more than capable. Few are able to brew lyrium successfully the first time but _you_ did."

His praise had the opposite effect he hoped for. Her distress grew and she pulled back to stare at him, tears coursing down her cheeks. "Please don't lie to me. I thought things would be different here, that I wouldn't be useless anymore. I'll try harder, I swear. I'll try not to be such a disappointment like I was in Ostwick."

"I'm not lying, Evelyn. The lie is what you heard earlier. I shouldn't have called you useless baggage even if you weren't around to hear it." He pulled her back into a hug, finding it easier to speak when he couldn't see her devastated expression. "It's just complicated, this situation we've been thrust in. It isn't fair to either of us but that doesn't give me the right to lash out at you."

Her voice was muffled when she stated, "You regret Claiming me."

"I ... I regret we were both forced into this position but I don't regret saving you that night. I just wish ..."

"You wish it had been someone else you Claimed that night, someone not as repulsive as me."

He pulled back, anger starting to grow, his tone unconsciously forming into an Order. "You aren't repulsive! Why would you think that?"

She flinched, her face awash with fear, but she had been compelled to unwillingly speak her thoughts. "Because I was told so every day in Ostwick. And because ... because ..." She reached up rubbing urgently at the Binding band, her breath beginning to gasp, as she tried to fight against the Order.

Cullen moved his hands to her arms, fingers flexing deeply into her skin. As much as he wanted her to keep her thoughts private, as much as he wanted her to decide what and when to tell him things, he felt it too important not to force her this one time. "Tell me!"

"Because you don't want me in your bed."

His anger cooled, the hands gripping her arms loosening to rub soothingly. "Is that what you want?"

She bowed her head, taking in deep breaths, hands wringing painfully together. "It is my punishment for escaping the Circle, for being an apostate."

"That isn't what I asked, Evelyn. Do you want me to bed you?" His fingers tightened, his voice roughening into an Order. "Answer me truthfully!" Even though he was expecting it, he felt a deep stab of disappointment when she shook her head with a whispered, "No."

He took a step back, rubbing at his neck. "Then it won't happen. I will not take you unwillingly again."

"But the Chantry says ..."

He cut her off immediately. "I don't care what the Chantry says. The only thing that matters is what I, what _we_ decide." He gave a great sigh. "I don't think you're repulsive, Evelyn. The opposite is, in fact, the truth. Nor do I think you're stupid, or unworthy, or any of the other asinine things you've been made to believe. I Claimed you and with that comes a responsibility to see to your care, to make sure that you are safe. Where I will be going is likely to be dangerous and the trek will be difficult. I was hoping to protect you from that." He studied her a moment, unable to interpret the mask she wore. "I was wrong though. You've been trained in healing and poultices, isn't that right?"

Evelyn nodded, her face beginning to look hopeful.

"We'll need a healer, someone who can treat the injuries and nurse the ill. Do you think you can handle that?"

Her face beamed with pride and happiness with a bit of uncertainty mixed in. "I think I can."

"It won't be easy, Evelyn, and you'll have to pull your own weight."

"So, I'm to come with you?"

_Maker, don't let me regret this._ "Yes."

OOO

The following days were a bustle of activity. He and Sula apologized for their fight in their usual way, by pretending it had never happened. He broke the news of his departure to Asher and Declan. Passage for four was booked on the ship heading to Amaranthine, only Asher opting to stay in Kirkwall. Lists were drawn up for equipment they would bring from Kirkwall and what they would need to procure in Amaranthine. There were daily meetings with Cassandra and Leilana to finalize his travel route and to develop contingency plans. Nights were filled with reviewing and adjusting the plans and lists.

He took Evelyn to Lowtown and had hardy boots commissioned for her. They dug through the many supply closets to find sturdy clothes for her small figure. The pants and tunic were ill-fitting, giving her a frumpy appearance but far better than the fragile robes which would clearly mark her as a mage. He gave her a pack, cautioning her to not overload it with too many books because she would be responsible for carrying it on the lengthy journey.

On his last morning, he stood alone in his office feeling some sadness, some regret that he would be leaving the place he'd called home for so many years but with a growing eagerness to put the bitterness and disappointment behind him. In his palm sat the vial of lyrium Sula had given him moments before. He could feeling it pulsing, could feel the tug of need from his gut. He stared at it, letting the iciness sink into his palm. He thumbed open the vial, smelling deeply of the pungent liquid, his mouth watering in reaction. For a few heartbeats, he remained unmoving before pushing the stopper back into the vial.

He'd made the decision to leave the Order. He'd broken the Chantry's leash the day he'd thrown his sword at Grand Cleric Deblyn's feet. This was just one more step to take so he could finally rule himself. Without a backwards glance, he strode to the courtyard where Evelyn, Sula, and Declan were waiting and the new life he hoped to build.

Left behind atop his near empty desk was the small pulsing blue vial.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original plan for this chapter was to get all the way through to them departing Amaranthine. I decided to stop much earlier because 1) it would have been much to sprawling, with too much going on, and I didn't want to draw emphasis away from Cullen and Evelyn's conversation, and 2) my work is very seasonal in nature and my super busy time starts in a few days. I wanted to get out something before that happens so hence a rather short chapter. I don't know when I'll have time to post another part - 14 hour days/7 days a week leaves little time or energy for writing. Please be patient. I promise to work on the next chapter as much as I can in the coming months.

Cullen took a sip of water, letting the sweet-tasting liquid rinse away the acrid bile. He dropped the scoop back into the water barrel as another crash of a wave had him rushing to lean on shaky arms over the ship's side. There was nothing left to come up but his treacherous stomach refused to settle down. His head pounded in counterpoint to each roll of the ship, his skin radiating heat despite the teeth-chattering chill of the strong night breezes. His throat was parched. His back ached with each motion, even shallow breathing sending tremors of intense pain across the overworked muscles.

He sank back into the recess formed by the provisions lashed to the ship's decking. It provided him privacy, some slight relief from the winds but also created a chasm of isolation. Despite having a few of the ship's crew moving around the deck in the quiet of the night, even knowing that Sula, Declan, and Evelyn slept not far away below deck, Cullen felt as if he were marooned on a desolate island, an impenetrable separation from everything and everyone.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling, the loneliness that had descended, he realized. Without the masking cloud of lyrium euphoria, he felt lonely and lost. Lyrium and the need for it had overshadowed everything else in his life for decades. Since his very first sip of the bitter blue liquid, it seemed as if he had been falling into an abyss with nothing to break his fall. It had become his moral compass. Be the obedient Templar the Chantry expected and get your daily dose. Follow orders, no matter how appalling, or have it withheld. His life, until the moment he left the vial on his desk that morning, had revolved around the glowing icy blue fluid. That incredible tang he tasted each morning. The counting of hours until he could savor it again. The clamoring for extra duties and promotions that would ensure him increasing dosages. Lyrium had been the foci of his existence yet it had estranged him from life as well.

Sula often teased him about his awkwardness around women but his social ineptness went beyond that. He could issues orders to be sure. Follow them, not always with ease but follow nonetheless. He could discuss training techniques and debate how best to utilize troops on the field of battle. But with few exceptions, he always felt a disconnect with others, an inability to understand their drives, motivations, passions. Lyrium was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that _should_ matter. That people could care about anything beyond how to get more of the icy fluid mystified him. Where others could heartily and easily laugh, he always felt his laughter to be hollow and lacking. Aggression he could understand. Fury, hatred, disgust all seemed natural but joy, happiness, contentment were emotions he mimicked without truly experiencing. Now, in the early throes of withdrawal, he was realizing just how stunted his emotions had become, how much he had used lyrium to suppress his internal despondency. He had felt entirely detached from everything and everyone, including himself, for too long.

As alien an emotion as it was, he had been so hopeful just a few hours ago. He had broken the Chantry's leash, proclaimed his independence, become his own man, made the decision to forsake lyrium. Optimism had flowed through him, drowning out the doubts. Yet now, a shroud of misgivings was beginning to choke him. He was terrified. Hopelessness and helplessness taking hold. His mind was a fog, his thoughts dark and confusing. He was fatigued yet agitated. A worthless disappointment promoted far beyond his means. He just knew that everything was about to come crashing down around him. Cassandra, Leliana, and Most Holy would soon realize the momentous mistake they had made in putting their trust in him.

Cullen leaned back, rubbing his palms against his painfully dry eyes. He tried to will his headache to abate, the pounding beginning to feel like daggers plunging into his skull. He felt a shift of air, heard the soft pad of steps, sensed the presence of someone too close. Instinct took hold and he lashed out, seizing, in a crushing grip, the hand that was reaching for him.

He heard a low cry of alarm. Blinking to clear his blurry vision, he saw Evelyn, her mouth twisted in a wince, brown eyes rounded in surprise. He immediately loosened his grip and tried to apologize, instead a large wave crashing against the hull sent him scrambling to the railing. He felt her hand rubbing soothingly on his back as his empty stomach tried to purge itself once again. Cullen gratefully took the water scoop from her, rinsing his mouth before taking a cautious sip. He croaked out his thanks as he passed the scoop back to her. Suddenly weak limbs had him slumping over the railing.

"Let me help," her soft voice offered as she lifted his arm around her shoulder.

He nodded gratefully, trying his best to keep most of his weight from her. With her help, he managed to return to the nook, settling feebly against the lashed equipment. All of a sudden the overheated sensation that had had him sweating for hours dissipated, leaving him aching with a bone-deep chill.

As he sat there, shivering and miserable, Evelyn settled a coarse blanket around him. "I was worried you might get cold."

He tried to thank her but his chattering teeth made the task impossible. Despite the powerful chill of his body, sweat was still sheeting off him, intensifying the cold with each slight brush of the night winds.

She dug into one of her pockets, pulling out a delicate handkerchief. She knelt down and, with a light touch, wiped his face clean before turning her attention to his slick, trembling hands. "I can make you some tea if you like."

Just the thought of putting anything in his stomach had it tightening in agonized trepidation. He was about to refuse, about to tell her to return to her bed, until he saw her face. She knelt there, staring up at him, earnest and eager. He recalled her words in Kirkwall when he realized he had no choice but to bring her on the journey to Haven. She believed herself useless, stupid, and an utter disappointment in everything. She needed to know that she could contribute, that her skills as a healer were appreciated, that he valued her efforts. Letting her fix him some tea was such a small task to allow her to start realizing her worth. He would toss it overboard once she retreated to her cabin. There was no way he was going to risk even tea in his sensitive stomach. "Yes, please."

Her answering smile burned away some of his trepidation and he found himself smiling weakly in return. If he'd the strength, he would have chuckled at her enthusiasm as she scampered away. Instead, he shut his eyes, fingers digging into his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pounding headache that was beginning to rock his entire body. Taking a deep breath turned out to be a mistake for even the briny smell of the sea had him fighting against rising nausea.

"Here, this should help."

Cullen felt something cold and wet being placed against the back of his neck. He opened his eyes in protest and began to reach up to remove the offending item when he realized that the queasiness had abated slightly. He blinked in surprise and took the tin mug Evelyn held out without comment.

"Take only a small sip at first. Let the tea start to do its work before drinking the rest."

He looked at the murky liquid, stomach churning anew at the thought of tasting it. Cullen realized that Evelyn had no intention of simply delivering the tea and departing for her cabin and he didn't want to squash her growing confidence. He brought the tin to his lips, nostrils flaring at the repugnant odor. He glanced at her questioningly.

Her look was apologetic. "I'm afraid it won't taste much better. It's chamomile with ginger, peppermint, aniseed, and turmeric. All known to help an unsettled stomach. I also put in some ground willow bark which should soothe your sore muscles and the headache. There's a touch of honey but I fear that won't help the taste much."

Cullen was surprised that she had, without being told, known his complaints went beyond simple seasickness. But, he quickly realized, Evelyn was always watching her surroundings, carefully and cautiously noticing anything of import. She had probably watched him before approaching with the blanket and, as one skilled in the healing arts, could easily have picked up on his multiple ailments.

He took a guarded sip, his tongue protesting the horrid flavor, and swallowed quickly. He fought against the impulse to retch and quickly moved the mug away from his lips to keep from inhaling more of the vile scent. Evelyn knelt in front of him again, eyes carefully studying him, fingers moving to soothingly rub at his temples.

"Take another sip," she said, her careful tone more of a suggestion than a command.

He complied, relieved to find that the tea was having the desired effect. His stomach stopped rolling in tandem with the waves. He took a gulp without any prodding. Soon he had drained the dented mug and sank back against the cargo with a relieved sigh. "It's helping. Thank you."

Though her ever-persistent mask stayed in place, her eyes glinted with intense pleasure at his clipped compliment as she tucked the blanket tightly around him. "Do you need anything else?" she inquired quietly.

He shook his head cautiously, not wanting his receding headache to flare again. "No. The tea and the blanket were exactly what I needed."

She rose before removing the damp cloth from the back of his neck. "If there's nothing else, I'll check on you in the morning." She started to turn away.

His hand lashed out again, gripping her wrist more gently this time. "Stay." His thumb rubbed lightly over the pulse point. "Please," he quickly added, not wanting her to think she had no choice. It was an impulsive act, one that he really didn't understand. Depression and melancholy loomed heavily over him and he simply didn't want to be alone with only the vastness of the open night sky for company. He released her hand before scooting over to make space for her in the little niche.

Cullen was grateful when, after hesitating for a moment, Evelyn sank down to sit beside him. They sat there, each staring awkwardly anywhere but each other. She was there, at his request, and he had no idea of how to proceed. He floundered, searching for anything to fill the painful silence. When a large wave crashed against the hull, he finally spoke. "Have you been on a boat before?" He immediately cringed. Of course she hadn't. She'd spent her near entire life in Ostwick Circle and the last thing he desired was to remind her of the apparently painful time there.

"Yes," she began slowly. "Or at least I think I have. I dream sometimes of being a young girl in a rowboat with a boy only a few years older than me manning the oars. The sun is bright and the sky is clear. There are blooming shrubs along the shore and a woman smiling and waving at us." She plucked nervously at the ill-fitting pants she wore. Finally she turned her gaze to his, a rueful frown on her pensive face. "It's probably nothing more than a silly fancy, something I created so I would have something happy to think about."

"Or it could be your family you are remembering," he offered.

She began chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. "I ... maybe. I can't be sure. It's been so long and the image has blurred and become indistinct over time."

Cullen's curiosity erupted again. She appeared barely eighteen. Her memories of her family and the time before the Circle should have at least some clarity. "How old were you when you went to the Circle?"

"Not quite seven."

He inhaled sharply in astonishment. Most mages were twelve or thirteen when they came into their power. There was a level of maturity and an inkling of the ramifications of what it meant. For a child as young as Evelyn had been, it must have been an overwhelmingly terrifying and confusing event. No wonder her memories of her family were so hazy. "So young," he whispered.

Her reply was a chocked, "Yes."

Cullen noticed her scarred hand was tightly fisting in her lap. He gently lifted it in his own, lightly rubbing the tense muscles in the hopes she would relax. At least he believed he now had the answer as to how her hand had been injured. When her magic manifested, she wouldn't have known to protect herself from it. Fear and bewilderment would have mixed in with her timidity, warring against natural instinct. "Your spells must be very fierce. Usually, the younger one comes into their magic, the more powerful they are."

She seemed to crumple in on herself, her hand fisting tightly again in his palm. "Yes." Her voice was low and full of despair. "But I never learned the precision and control necessary. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I studied and practiced, I could never control it like I must. I'm a failure. A dangerous one. That's why I'm glad ..." Her voice trailed off and she turned to stare off into the horizon.

"What are you glad about?" he prodded.

She turned back, staring intently at her scarred hand resting in his palm. "I'm glad that the night you Claimed me, you Ordered me not to use my magic. I don't want to hurt anyone and this way I can't."

In that moment, Cullen felt if they were together for centuries, he'd still not understand her. For a mage to be denied magic was like if he entered battle without sword or armor, defenseless and vulnerable. He'd been contemplating removing the restriction entirely or, at the very least, easing it somewhat. Their journey was going to be long and arduous, with unknown perils likely. He would do his best to put safeguards in place to try to protect her but had felt she should be able to defend herself.

Unconsciously, his thumb had been rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred skin above her wrist. She shivered slightly from the light touch. "Are you certain about this? I think you should at least be able to call up a barrier in case ..."

"No!" her emphatic voice interrupted him. She appeared as shock as he felt by her suddenly stubborn, authoritative tone. Timidity began to creep back in when she finally continued, "The Maker cursed me with magic and you, by Ordering me not to use my spells, have freed me from that burden. I'd rather not go back to being terrified all the time of what harm I might cause." She looked worriedly up at him. "But that is your decision. I'm not trying to make demands."

Unsaid, but clearly heard by him, was 'please don't punish me for speaking my mind'. He smiled gently, trying to ease some of her worries. "I only want you to be happy and safe. If you feel you are better off without access to your magic then we'll keep it that way." He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock from her face. "But if you change your mind, I want you to tell me."

She smiled weakly in return. "I won't." She tried, but failed, to stifle a yawn.

"Go to bed, Evelyn. And, thank you for the tea. I just might be able to get some sleep now."

She nodded in appreciation as she rose to seek her bed. Cullen stretched out as best he could and, before too long, drifted into an uncomfortable slumber.

For the rest of the trip, Cullen kept to himself. While the seasickness was moderately under control, the withdrawal from lyrium was cresting. Fortunately, most put his symptoms down to travel sickness and left him alone in his misery. His muscles and joints were a study in agony and pain, limiting his movements around the deck. He was anxious and jittery. He vacillated between bouts of unadulterated fury to despair so deep he fought to keep from weeping. There were days he could not sleep, others he could not rouse. He scratched deep furrows in his arms though the itching never abated. His skin felt fevered one minute, achingly cold the next. He gave up trying to clean the constantly sheeting sweat from his body.

Through it all, Evelyn kept a quiet, worried watch. He appreciated that she was discrete in her ministrations. During the day, when there were many observing eyes about, she limited herself to delivering milk toast or thin broth for his meals. And she made regular rounds with that Maker awful tea that he had begun to both crave and hate as much as he did lyrium. At night, when they were practically alone on the deck, she would ply him about his symptoms, trying to deduce what was ailing him. He would endure her questioning, tolerate her poking and prying, drink the vile concoctions she forced on him, until his frazzled state could take no more. He'd snap and yell, sending her scurrying to her quarters, only to repeat the process all over again with the new day.

Finally, not soon enough in Cullen's mind, with the sun beginning to sink towards the horizon, Amaranthine's tall spires came into view.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: When I put Claimed on hiatus, I never thought it would a whole year before I got another chapter out. For that I apologize. Tourist season is a chaotic time for me with this year being especially so ... and the chaos hasn't let up yet. While I am back to working on Claimed, I will not be able to return to getting a chapter out every two weeks. My goal is a chapter every two months but that may prove to be unrealistic. Just know that whenever I get spare time, I do try to sit down and bang out more of the story.
> 
> A/N 2: This chapter would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of bushviper. Between writer's block like I've never experienced and a severe lack of confidence, she has been an incredible friend and cheerleader. Always gracious with her time and offering feedback for countless versions I cobbled together. You are awesome, BV. I couldn't have done it without you. I also need to acknowledge Miss_ragdoll84 who kindly offered to give the chapter a pre-read. Her feedback and support helped me rediscover my joy in writing in general, and with the story in particular.

"Stop getting underfoot, Evelyn," Cullen snapped.  His impatience flared as he turned in his heated pacing, nearly knocking over the nervous mage.  "Wait by the equipment until I tell you otherwise."  His annoyance spiked anew when she stumbled in her scurried rush to obey his Command.  Inwardly cursing, he wished once again that he could have found a way to leave her behind in Kirkwall.

Sula glowered at him, not for the first time since this mess started.  Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately since he was itching for a fight, she chose to continue holding her tongue.  It didn't help his temperament that even Declan gave him an unfriendly scowl before joining Evelyn by the mound of gear.

Irritation.  Seething, boiling exasperation.  Gone were the long days of enduring conflicting emotions.  No more battling between elation and despair, bleakness vying with optimism, nor agitation clashing with lethargy.  Cullen had settled into a pattern of growing frustration that only festered and churned with each breath he took.

He knew the tasks before him, the building of an army from its very foundation and the training of inexperienced youths with more bravado than brains into a force capable of confronting former Templars and desperate mages, would be monumental.  There would be challenges to face, setbacks to surmount.  And, yes, even outright failures, though he hoped to keep these to a minimum.  Yet he thought he would have a moment of tranquility, a day, at the very least, to revel in optimism as he prepared to build a new life for himself and work towards bringing peace to Thedas.

It was his own fault.  He couldn't deny it.  With the cityscape so tantalizingly close and the lure of finally having solid ground underfoot, he had insisted the ship's captain dock immediately.  The man had stood firm about waiting until dawn, easily countering every one of Cullen's arguments.  It was only after Cullen had handed over a significant portion of coin from his hefty pouch did the captain become amenable.  And as much as he was pleased to finally quit the Maker-forsaken vessel, disembarking in the dead of the night had created unforeseen complications.

A lifetime serving as a Templar had trained him to expect precise efficiency and strict organization.  If he had been traveling on Order business, he would have been met at the gangplank by a Templar, no matter  how early nor late his arrival.  There would have been trustworthy porters to haul off his equipment to a secure location.  He'd have been assigned a clean, dry cell for as long as he was in the city.  If he had been expecting the competence of the Order, he was sorely disappointed.  There was no agent waiting at the end of the gangplank.  No porters, reliable or otherwise.  And, as far as he knew, no arrangements for a place for his party to rest their heads.

Cullen paced back and forth along the dock, each stride magnifying his annoyance.  Finally, he had reached his limit.  "Enough is enough!"  Behind him he could hear Sula and Declan rise quickly to attention.  "Continued inaction is no solution.  I'm wasting no more time waiting for the promised agent," he said as he turned back to address them.  "Sula, go find some porters to hire.  You'll stay here, Declan, and guard the equipment."  Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And the mage."  Any gratitude he had felt for Evelyn's ministrations during his sea sickness had dissipated, leaving only his ever-present resentment at her presence in its wake.  "I'll be back as soon as I can arrange rooms and a place to house our supplies."

He stalked back to the pile of equipment to retrieve his sword and shield, pointedly ignoring Evelyn who was sitting atop one of the crates.  Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs while she rested her head against her knees.  As he approached, she seemed to draw inward, attempting to appear as small and insubstantial as possible.  He understood her trepidation, her fear of drawing his attention.  In normal circumstances, he would have felt guilt or flushed with shame for causing such apprehension.  Instead her attempt at not annoying him only added fuel to his mounting ire.  He fought against the impulse to yell at her.  She was too easy of a target and, if he started, he didn't think he could stop until he had let vent all of his frustrations on the reticent mage.

Cullen was belting on his scabbard when Evelyn's head suddenly snapped up, staring worriedly at a point over his shoulder.  He turned, finding the scene seemingly unchanged at first.  Yet, for the first time since docking, his anger did not flare.  If there was one thing he could put trust in, it was Evelyn's hyper awareness of her environs.  Little escaped her notice.

"Someone is coming," she tentatively volunteered.

It took him several heartbeats to make out what she had so easily perceived.  From one of the many side streets, there was a faint glowing lightness which continued to grow.  Soon a figure emerged, a lantern held high as he sprinted towards the party.  If Cullen were in a better mood, he might have found the sight comical.  The man stumbled several times, seemingly tripping over the cords of his unlaced boots.  He was frantically attempting to stuff his shirt tails into his pants but the heavy satchel bouncing off his hip made the task impossible.  He finally skidded to a stop in front of Cullen, huffing deeply.

Cullen looked him over, unimpressed with what he saw.  The man's boots were on the wrong feet, the laces stuffed haphazardly within the footwear.  His shirt was wrinkled and stained while his leather jacket undone.  The helmet atop his head sat askew with the faceguard covering his nose and mouth.

"Sorry, ser, I wasn't expecting you till at least midmorning," the man said as righted his helmet and then carefully set the lantern on the ground.  "Corbin reported that people were waiting on the docks but I put it down to a drunken hallucination.  After all, no one would be barmy enough to dock at night."  At Sula's snickering, he hastily added, "But I'm sure you had your reasons, ser.  Anyway, Corbin mentioned those waiting were wearing Templar armor.  It took me a while to remember I hadn't told anyone you are a Templar.  That's when I realized he was telling the truth so I rushed right over."

Cullen crossed his arms, looking down at the man with icy disapproval.  "And you are?"

"Oh!  Yes!  Sorry, ser!"  He saluted with an overenthusiastic slam of a fist against his chest.  "I'm Jim, ser.  Sister Leliana hired me to assist you during the recruitment tour."  He frantically patted his jacket, then his pants, before digging through the satchel hanging at his hip.  With a flourish, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it over.  "My letter of introduction," he added unnecessarily.

Cullen skimmed the letter, his scowl deepening as he read Leliana's elegant writing.  The dispatch clearly stated that the buffoon standing in front of him was, indeed, to serve in Most Holy's army as one of his assistants.  _Shows potential.  Methodical.  Dependable._  He fought back the impulse to scoff.  His impressions of the young man were in direct opposition to Leliana's glowing description.  Nevertheless, he was stuck with the man until he could find a more suitable candidate.

"What are your duties?"

Jim's eagerness diminished slightly as he watched the letter of introduction crumple under Cullen's closing fist.  "I, ..., um.  I'm to travel ahead with a small group to prepare for your arrival.  Scouting out possible locations to use for recruitment staging areas, starting initial negotiations with merchants for ongoing contracts, procuring any needed supplies."  He brightened suddenly.  "Oh, and make arrangements for rooms for you and your officers.  I'm sure you're tired after your travels.  If you would follow me, I'll bring you to the inn where I've secured some rooms."

Cullen snorted.  "Even though you weren't expecting us until mid-morning?"

Jim seemed oblivious to Cullen's derision.  "Sea travel being what it is, I didn't want to risk you turning up early and having to pitch tents with the rest of us."  He cheerily added, "And I was right.  You did arrive sooner than expected."  He threw the flap back over the overloaded satchel hanging from his shoulder before picking up the lantern.  "I've got some men coming with wagons to haul your supplies to our camp.  They'll be here shortly."  He glanced back to the alley from where he had first emerged.  "And here they are now so we can be on our way."

Cullen's low opinion of his new assistant improved just slightly.  He may not know what boot went with which foot, nor smart enough to assign someone to watch for his possible early arrival, but he certainly had rallied more than enough people and handcarts to deal with the equipment haulage.  "Declan."

"You can leave it with me."  The young Templar nodded, needing no further instructions.  "I'll make sure that the equipment is properly secured.  With your permission, I'll bunk down at the camp so I can keep an eye on things."

"Permission granted.  I'll want an initial report in the morning about the number of recruits and the supplies already gathered."  He turned away, secure in the knowledge that Declan would oversee things in his stead.  Evelyn was still sitting atop one of the crates but now she was quivering, her eyes darting back and forth in an effort to keep track of all the people.  His voice brusque, he commanded, "Gather your things and come with me."

Perhaps to make up for his earlier tardiness, Jim sped them through the maze of streets.  Cullen felt his annoyance and exasperation begin to melt away with the anticipation of the respite a stay in an inn would offer.  He knew it was too late to request a bath be drawn but he was fairly certain he could convince the innkeeper to pour him a pint or three.  He would then retreat for a comfortable night's sleep in an actual bed.  After spending the entire sea voyage on the deck bunking amongst the supplies, Cullen was most looking forward to stretching out on a bed while he enjoyed the novelty of not being heaved to and fro by crashing waves.

"...mander?  Commander?"

It took several heartbeats for Cullen to realize that Jim had been addressing him.  "Yes?"

"Sorry for interrupting your thoughts, Commander, but we're here."

Without him realizing it, the party was now standing in front of an inn, complete with a groggy innkeeper standing in the doorway.  "Of course we are," Cullen barked, covering up his embarrassment of not paying attention with belligerence.

"If  there's nothing else, Commander, I'll see you in the morning.  Would the eighth bell be too early?  I'm sure you would like to sleep in and enjoy a leisurely breakfast after your long journey."

He nodded absently, more engrossed in the novelty of relaxing than worrying about details.  He'd nearly made it through the inn's door when Jim called out.

"Commander!  I nearly forgot.  This is for you."  Jim pulled the strap of the overloaded satchel over his head and held the bag out to him.

"And what exactly is this?"

"Reports, communications from Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Leliana, details about merchants you'll be meeting with.  Oh, and some sketches of armor.  You'll need to approve one before you get measured for your new armor.  Sister Leliana insists the measurements get sent to Haven as soon as possible."  He began furiously digging around the stuffed satchel until he gave up with a sheepish grin.  "The sketches are in here somewhere."

Cullen took the pack with a heavy sigh and walked into the inn without another word to his hapless assistant.  It took but a few moments for the innkeeper to explain how to get to their rooms and hand over the keys before departing for his own bed.  Sula, with Evelyn dutifully following behind, immediately headed up the stairs.  All too soon, Cullen was standing alone in the common area.  He looked sourly at the bag in his hands, wanting nothing more than to ignore its weight, to put aside, even for a few hours, the responsibilities that went with it.  He had never been one to shirk his duties, nor one to postpone what needed to be done, and he wouldn't start now.

With yet another heavy sigh, he settled at the table closest to the large open fire pit.  There was a resentment in his movements as he flipped open the satchel, finding just what he had been expecting.  Missives had been shoved in willy-nilly, with no thought to any sort of organization.  He grabbed the topmost set, skimming quickly through each.  He continued to search through the mounds of communications, setting aside items that needed immediate attention, attempting to sort the rest into some semblance of proper orderliness.

Eventually Cullen found the sketches.  There was no question as to which he would choose.  The first three were not worthy of consideration.  The last, though.  He held it up, studying it in the flickering dim light from the fire.  He could see Cassandra's influence in the stark design.  Function over embellishment.  Simplicity over style.  An unassuming armor worthy of his humble Fereldan heritage.  He set the sketch aside before snatching another set of parchments from the satchel.

_Commander._

He shook his head viscously.  The last thing he needed at this moment was the voice of that idiot Jim addressing him floating about in his thoughts.  Quickly skimming through the papers, he tried to sort them into logical piles for later review.  Supplies.  Operations.  Equipment.  Intelligence.  Supplies.  Budget.  He tried to focus on the task at hand.  But ...

_Commander._

Cullen couldn't get Jim's voice out of his head.  It wasn't as if it was the first time he'd been addressed as such.  Leliana and Cassandra had often referred to him by his new title during their many planning sessions in Kirkwall.  This was different somehow.  It was a subordinate.  It was from one of the many soldiers looking to him for leadership and direction.

_Commander._

It had a weight and significance that brought the full reality of his new endeavor crashing down upon him.  What made him think he had the abilities or temperament to lead Most Holy's army?  By the time he had assumed command, Kirkwall's Order numbered not even a score of Templars, overseeing but a handful of Tranquils and Claimed mages.  Granted, he had managed to hold the Order together longer than anyone, including himself, thought possible.  In spite of his efforts, though, it had still fallen.  Those who hadn't deserted had been slaughtered to a man.  And he still thought himself capable of leading an army when he couldn't even keep a single Order from descending into bedlam?

_Commander._

He wasn't a pessimist by nature and, in this situation, he was more of a realist.  Cullen had little faith the Conclave would, or even could, succeed.  The people of Thedas might as well wish upon a falling star for all the good it would do.  Hatred and distrust had become ingrained in Templar and mage alike.  Days, even weeks, of discussion and airing of grievances, would not have the hoped for resolution.  Neither side would bend.  It would quickly devolve into finger pointing and slur slinging.  The only results would be a deepening of animosity and eventual war.

So instead of needing perhaps a hundred or so soldiers to keep the peace at the Conclave, he was looking at possibly thousands eventually under his command.  Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such an endeavor.  His hand ran along the piles of communications, upsetting his careful organization.  For just a moment, he felt inadequate, ready to quit before he had even truly begun.  There was so much to do, so much to learn.  How could his experience leading Kirkwall's Order translate into the colossal abilities necessary for commanding Divine Justinia's army?  He simply wasn't ready.

Yet ... as he continued to idly spread the missives around, he found near the bottom, a map, similar to the one he, Cassandra, and Leliana had poured over in Kirkwall.  It laid out the path for the tour, with suggestions of how long he should spend recruiting in each of the various cities and towns along the way with estimates of how many might sign up at the many stopping points.  He pulled the map closer, drawing his finger along the surface until it landed on Amarathine.  Recruitment estimate - twenty to thirty.

His trepidation eased.  He wasn't expected to lead thousands immediately, just a score or a score and a half.  That was manageable.  That was doable.  He had already proved he could lead that number.  The army would grow and he could grow with it.  He would learn how to manage the rising numbers and growing responsibilities.  And he wouldn't be alone with the tasks.  Sula was at his side as was Declan.  From the recruits, he would find some with leadership potential, others with prior military experience.  He also shouldn't forget those officers who would heed his call once word got out.  Rylen of Starkhaven would surely join as well as Marcus Harcourt of Jainen.  Then there were the Banns who might consider providing troops in aid.  It was in their interest to prevent war from coming to their lands.

Cullen leaned back, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time.  The tasks that laid before him were epic, to be sure, but, with the right approach, attainable.  Delegating to capable hands, adapting as the numbers grew, shaping and reshaping the army's divisions as needed.  He would need to be flexible, need to be willing to risk new methodologies, untried tactics.

There was little doubt he would have to take a new approach with warfare.  Before the Orders fell, Templars were the most feared, most disciplined, best trained forces in all of Thedas.  The Templars may have deserted their posts but they hadn't left their skills behind.  If Cullen were to use the same tactics that had been drilled into him as a Templar, he would be fighting fire with fire.  It would result in a stalemate, or, even worse, utter defeat.  No, he would need to fight fire with water.  That meant novel ways of thinking, innovative strategies, new approaches to training.  He had thrown off the shackles of the Chantry but could he free himself of thinking like a Templar?  Was his training too deep-rooted to adjust and change?

And he hadn't even a clue as to how to deal with the mages.  He would not shackle his new army with addiction but then he would not have the most effective means to suppress mages, much less Blood mages.  Without soldiers who were taking lyrium and who lacked the years of training on how to counter magic, how long could the army stand against them?  How many men would he lose to just a lone, desperate mage?  How many would die taking a stand against a group of them?  Unlike the Templars, perhaps he _did_ need to fight fire with fire when it came to the mages.  If he could somehow get word to Hawke or Solona, would some of the mages join at their call?  Even several squadrons would stand little chance against a truly powerful mage, but add even one mage to his forces and victory would not be so hard won.

An ironic smile alighted his face.  _It truly is a mad world if I'm considering actively recruiting mages but this just might work.  Perhaps it's not only a change in tactics that's needed but a shift in thinking as well.  Mages as equal members of an army rather than kept locked away until dire circumstances like a Blight.  Now that is a novel approach._

Feeling more hopeful than he had in years, he gathered up the scattered missives littering the tabletop, stuffing them all back into the satchel.  The work could wait until later.  For now, he was going to enjoy a respite.  It was probably going to be the last one for a very long time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks and appreciation to Bushviper who continues to be my official hand-holder, cheerleader, sounding board, and now beta reader. I could not do this without your help and support!
> 
> Also much thanks to missragdoll84 for the many pre-reads and suggestions!

The hopefulness Cullen had been experiencing was already dissipating as he began to climb the steps to his room.  Adding a mage or two into the ranks might be a novel approach, could even give his army the winning edge in the inevitable war, but it was not without considerable risk.  He would be a fool to not give careful consideration to the notion before implementation.  Without Templars, there would be no means to keep the mage recruits in check.  The wrong mage could easily wreck havoc and destroy his army before they even engaged in their first battle.  There would have to be careful and extensive vetting of any mage wishing to join the army.  Additionally, he would need to put serious efforts into developing safeguards before he proceeded.

Still, it would not hurt to contact Solona to confer about the idea.  He should, at the very least, pursue the _possibility_ before rejecting it outright.  If anyone could understand his reservations, it would be she.  Solona understood the destructive powers of her fellows, had personal experience when she had freed Kinloch from the clutches of Blood mages.  Though she had resolutely refused his demand to annul the Circle, Solona had not condemned him for his stance.  She had been empathetic to the horrors he had experienced at Uldred's hand, understanding of his fear-induced paranoia.  And despite the vitriol he had poured on her at the time, she had remained a steadfast friend all these years, writing to him when she could, offering her support even when she disagreed with the path he was taking.  She was nearly as elusive as Hawke, so the most efficient path to get word to Fereldan's Queen in all but title would be through the man she'd given her heart.  If anyone could locate Amell, it would be King Alistair.

He would, for now, table the idea of attempting to contact Hawke.  Not only was she impossible to locate, as his disastrous mission when he had been forced to Claim Evelyn had already proven, he doubted he could trust her opinions.  To a certain extent, he admired her, even went so far to name her friend at one time.  Marian had stood against the growing chaos in Kirkwall (though the ill-informed and the unkind had charged her with causing it in the first place).  She had risked her life time and again on behalf of the city-state, never once seeking reward or recognition.  Without hesitation, he had sided with her when she opposed Meredith, risking his place with the Templars, willing to give his life and those of his men in the battle against the Knight-Commander's madness.

Still, Hawke's judgment was not to be trusted.  She had, after all, permitted a viper into her midst, held it to her very bosom.  Had nurtured it, protected it.  Had turned a blind-eye to the acts of the abomination that was her lover.  Though he had deceived her about his purpose, Marian had willingly helped Anders gather the materials needed for his contemptible plan.  And when the stones rained down along with the life blood of the Grand Cleric, the innocent Sisters, and guiltless townsfolk who had gathered for services, she had not condemned his actions.  No, Marian had allowed the coward to live, helped, and was likely _still helping_ the murderer escape judgment.

Cullen could not lend his voice to the calls across Thedas that the most fitting punishment would be for Anders to be Claimed, to be permanently tied to a Templar who would make him suffer and pay daily for his crimes.  Claiming, even for one such as Anders, was just too reprehensible.  A Templar boot on his neck - followed quickly by a sword - was the sentence Anders deserved.  And Maker willing, Cullen would be the one to strike the final blow.

His concerted effort to let go of the simmering anger that had resurfaced when he began thinking of the terrorist failed as he stepped onto the landing.  Just a quick glance down the hallway fanned the flames of his rage into an inferno.   _What is that daft girl thinking?  Doesn't she know just how dangerous it is to leave the door wide open?_  His furious stride had him speeding down towards the room at the end of the hall before he realized what he was doing.   As Evelyn came into view, Cullen's pace stilled, a mere handbreadth from the open door.  He spied her standing at the room's window, surprised and mesmerized by what he saw.  Her face was lifted, staring up into the night's sky.  The severe bun she typically wore was now a tightly bound braid that looped over her shoulder.  Even seen by profile, the different hairstyle did little to soften her sharp, angular features. Just as quickly as it had exploded, his anger was extinguished.

It was not the changed style of her hair nor the rigid way she stood that captivated him.  She, who was always so vigilant about being aware of her surroundings, was, for once, oblivious to his presence.  Her normally neutral expression was transformed by passionate emotions.  Gone was the meekness he was accustomed to associating with her.  Intense defiance, mingled with burning resentment, blazed from her face.  As he silently watched, she lifted her scarred hand, turning it to look first at the palm and then the back.  "The sky is blue!"  Though quietly spoken, her voice was powerful, colored with a depth of vibrant strength.  Still staring intensely at her hand, she continued, "Blue.  It is blue.  It is _never_ orange.  The sky is blue!"  While the words held obvious profound significance for the mage, Cullen could not puzzle out a meaning.

Suddenly, as if all strength had been consumed by her boldness, her hand dropped back down to her side.  The determination melted away from her face to be replaced by deep distress.  "I'm not useless baggage.   _I'm not!_  And I'll prove it to him."  Sounding almost as if she were on the edge of weeping, she added, "Somehow."

Before he could slink back down the hallway, Evelyn turned.  They stared at each other for several heartbeats, he battered by rising guilt, she with growing panic.  Her eyes darted about, seeking a means of escape.  Realizing the only route of flight was through him, Evelyn's shoulders slumped, eyes closing with dread, she remained in place, resigned and trembling.

Cullen's only thought was to retreat, to hide away from the shame coursing through him.  He was finally being forced to see how deeply his careless, hateful words in Kirkwall were still distressing the mage who was irrevocably bound to him.  If he weren't a craven weakling, he would stay, try to repair the damage he had caused.  Barely able to bring himself to look in her direction, he instead set his bags by the side of the bed.  "I'm going out.  Be sure to bolt the door behind me."  He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to leave, to be away from her, to flee from the root of his guilt.

Her eyes snapped open, relief flickering across her features, tension melting from her limbs, before she began chewing nervously on her bottom lip.  Her voice lacking the depth of spirit it had just moments ago, she cautiously said, "You've been ill.  You really should rest."

As always happened when interacting with her, irritation began brewing.  Though remorse was guiding him, he still had to smother the impulse to snap at her.  It was unlike him to be such a beast to one who needed protecting and nurturing, but something about the apprehensive mage brought it out in him.  He had given her innumerable reasons to fear and loathe him, yet Evelyn still managed to express concern for his well-being.   _She_ was as much a puzzlement to him as was his instinctive urge to lash out at her at every opportunity.  He headed for the door, his shame burning through him.  "Just ... just do as I say, Evelyn."  His tone did not have its customary bite when he gave the instructions.  "Lock the door behind me and try to get some sleep.  I'll see you in the morning."

He didn't linger to see if she followed his directive.  The imperative to hide became an impulse he could no longer fight against.  His remorse guided him quickly down the stairs and back into the common room of the inn.  He sat for a time, staring into the dying fire, puzzling over his reactions.

Why had he grown so angry that she had left the door open?  If he had taken even a heartbeat to think, he would have realized that Evelyn would never consider such a simple act as closing a door.  She had grown up in a Circle with only a vague memory of her life before.  As a Templar serving in a Circle -- _former_ Templar he reminded himself -- he knew that a closed door didn't equate to security and protection for a mage.  The very opposite was, in fact, Evelyn's truth.  It meant danger.  It meant peril.  If hidden from view with other mages, she would have been under more suspicion.  The Templars would have watched her even more closely, looking for any sign of defiance or rebellion.  If locked in with the wrong sort of Templar, of which Cullen knew there were far too many, it would mean she was at his mercy for any brutality and malice he wished to force upon her.

Cullen realized, sitting there in the dimness of the common room, that the difficulties the young mage faced went well beyond lacking the wisdom to close a door for protection.  Evelyn was, simply put, ill-equipped for life outside the Circle.  She lacked all the skills that most people took for granted.  There was so much she didn't know, so much she would need to learn.  She had no concept of money, no idea how to barter and trade for herself.  She was clueless to so much as the price of a single apple.  Even if she could discover a means to earn a living, an unscrupulous merchant could easily convince her to empty her coin pouch for a stale loaf of bread.  Evelyn didn't know not to build a fire with green wood or how to preserve food.  With the paltry knowledge learned from farming elfroot in Ostwick, she might be able to manage a garden, but would she know what and when and how much to plant to see her through the lean months?  The Circle’s protection had left her as helpless as a baby.  For what purpose?

Perhaps, at one time, there was some truth that the Circles had been established to offer protection for mages, that they had been willing, even eager, to isolate themselves from the rest of society.  To be sure, in the aftermath of the First Blight and the dwindling power of the Imperium, those possessing of magic _were_ hunted down and slaughtered.  For many, their only crime was to be born with a power they did not wish to possess.

But did the truth of the Circles during their inception hold true today?  Did they still exist to offer protection and sanctuary for mages?  As a youth, Cullen had whole-heartedly believed that the Circles and Orders served to protect the people of Thedas from the dangers of magic,  and he had also never doubted that mages _needed_ the safety of the Circles.  He had listened for enthralled hours to the Templars in Honnleath tell tales of the heroism and valor of the Order, of the righteousness of their sacred duties.  While a recruit-in-training, when the tasks and lessons had seemed insurmountable, he had clung to the memories of those stories, used the anecdotes of bravery and devotion to bolster his flagging spirits.  A reminder that if he applied himself, he could become a defender of the Chantry, a holy soldier for the Maker.  Even when he had taken his vows, had tasted his first draught of lyrium and therein discovered the sacrifice expected of his commitment, he had not questioned.

So when had his misgivings started?  He’d had them, savagely suppressed all these years, muted by countless doses of lyrium.  Had it begun in Kirkwall watching Meredith's paranoia grow but unwilling to take action until it was nearly too late?  Perhaps it had been after his own madness started to pass following his torture at Uldred's hands?  Had it sparked the day he learned of the Chantry's endorsement of Claiming as a not only acceptable, but _mandatory_ punishment for apostasy?  He had been vehemently outspoken in his opposition, the only time in his many years of service that Cullen had publically disagreed with any of the Chantry's decrees.

Could it have started earlier though?  When Solona was saved from Tranquility by being conscripted into the Grey Wardens?  Had it been when the Orders decided mages would no longer be permitted to receive mail from their families?  At the time, the decision had seemed sensible.  Continued contact with the outside world seemed to only make their transition to Circle life harder.  But there had been a part of him that silently objected to that loss of liberty and the many others which soon followed.

Now that lyrium was no longer clouding his mind, he realized he had been dissatisfied for so long that it seemed his natural state.  He had desired to devote his life to shielding the weak, the helpless, the innocent -- but what had he truly done?  Had he been thinking of protecting the defenseless when he had begged Solona to annul the Kinloch mages, or had it been for the sake of retribution?  He had not once spoken against Meredith's orders to wield the Tranquility brand, even when he believed the mage in question guiltless.  He had, from the very beginning, turned a blind eye to the suffering, misery, and despair he saw in the many mages interned inside the thick encircling walls of Kinloch Hold, justifying to himself that they were somehow better off.

He could hardly say the mage now chained irrevocably to his side was somehow better off.  He became nothing but a brutish lout around Evelyn.  Shouldn't her vulnerability ignite his protective nature?  Shouldn't he be trying to nurture and guide her?  Certainly there had been times when he had shown her a touch of kindness, when he'd expressed some slight concern for her well-being.  Yet these infrequent moments were overshadowed by all the times he had abused and humiliated her.  He’d _raped_ her.  Ultimately, he had done it to save her, but it had still been rape.  More concerned about himself at the time, he had not taken one action to make it any less traumatizing for Evelyn.  Maker, he hadn't even bothered to ask for her name before forcing himself on her.  And his transgressions against her had only continued.  He had nearly struck her in a fit of rage, and reaching Kirkwall hadn't ended his inexcusable behavior.  At every opportunity, Cullen had treated Evelyn as if she were insignificant, unimportant, and nothing but an unwanted burden.  Nothing but _useless baggage_.

Cullen scrubbed at his face before running fatigued fingers through his hair.  In the eyes of the Chantry and the Orders, Evelyn was the perfect mage.  Docile, biddable, and most importantly, utterly dependent on the Circles for survival.  In any Circle, she would be pointed out by the Templars as a shining example of how mages should conduct themselves.  But what did it say that even Evelyn, a _perfect mage_ , had fled the place that was her supposed safe haven, knowing she could be sentenced to Claiming or death the moment she escaped its confining walls?  A punishment, to his great regret, she hadn't been able to elude.

Who did it benefit to have Evelyn -- or any mage -- enslaved for life?  She, who had never harmed anyone, not even when fighting to avoid capture, had been abundantly harmed by Claiming, had been abundantly harmed by his careless attitudes and words and burning resentments.  All Cullen had to do is look at Evelyn and see how he had deluded himself all these years.  Only now, hiding in the dark like a gutless cur, could he finally allow his doubts to surface, doubts he had refused to consider all these years.

Could it be the Circles were a lie?  That the Orders were a lie?  If those were truths, what did that say about his time spent as a Templar?  Had he simply swallowed the lies in order to justify his chosen path?  Had he been deluding himself because he did not want to admit his golden dream was nothing but falsehoods laid upon falsehoods?  And what did this mean about he, himself?  He had begged to be sent for training, studied and sacrificed to reach his goal, worked hard, devoted himself to become an exemplary Templar -- all so he could name himself a good and righteous man.  But was he?  Could he truly say that he was a good man?  That he was honorable?  That he was virtuous?

It all became too much.  Thoughts began to circle, whirling faster and faster as he revisited all of his doubts and his abundant defects.  There would be no resolution, no solace, sitting in the dark.  There was one place where he knew he could find peace, where the recriminations would quiet, where he might find guidance and absolution.  Cullen rose, his mind focused on just one thing as he left the inn.

Traveling through the maze of streets, his steps unerringly guided him, his eyes never moving from the towering spires of his destination.  When he'd last walked the streets of Amaranthine, it had been as a disgraced Templar transferring from Kinloch to Kirkwall.  He was struck by how much and how little he had changed in the intervening years.  He was still committed to the ideals of the Order, that the population must be protected from the dangers of magic unchecked and that mages must have a safe haven in which to learn and develop their skills.  Yet, his ideology had changed.  He no longer could support the current strictures of the Order, had thrown down his sword in protest and walked away from his old life.  Anger and distrustfulness still filled him as much now as a decade ago, but instead of blazing fury at the world around him, his emotions were now focused inward, ripping and shredding himself apart at every given opportunity, for every perceived fault.  Now, more than ever, he needed the succor of his faith, to kneel in supplication at the foot of Andraste.  Begging for forgiveness, praying for guidance.

Cullen finally arrived at the Chantry, feeling dwarfed and insignificant next to the sprawling edifice.  He slowly climbed the steps and pulled on the heavy door, slipping quietly into the massive sanctum.  His lungs immediately filled with the scent of stale, cloying incense.  No candles were lit near the entrance, leaving the eaves high above obscured by heavy, repressive shadows.  The only source of light was straight ahead at the other end of the sanctuary.  Illuminated from the glow of dozens of candles stood the figure of Andraste, her welcoming arms open wide.

He strode forward slowly, reverently.  At first, the only sound he heard was the echoing clang of his metal boots striking against the marble flooring.  As he neared the dais, he heard a weary voice speak.

           _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
           _Guide me through the blackest nights._  
 _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked._  
 _Make me to rest in the warmest places._

Despite its stagnant delivery, his anguish lifted for a moment as the words of his favorite passage washed over him.  Cullen saw the Sister, standing to the side of the platform, her eyes half-closed, struggling to stifle a yawn.  Her droning continued, dull and uninspired for what should have been a joy-filled exuberance.

           _O Creator, see me kneel:_  
           _For I walk only where You would bid me._  
 _Stand only in places You have blessed._  
 _Sing only the words You place in my throat._

He ignored the Sister as he moved to stand at the base of the statue of Andraste, centered between her outstretched arms.  He looked up at her serene face.  And waited.  Waited for the peace to descend.  Waited for his thoughts to still.  Waited for his injured soul to be filled to overflowing with jubilation.  Waited for the distress and insecurities and anguish to be transformed into comfort and clarity and conviction.

           _My Maker, know my heart:_  
           _Take from me a life of sorrow._  
 _Lift me from a world of pain._  
 _Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_.

Whenever he faltered, whenever he needed guidance, he had always fallen back to the foundation of his life:  his faith and trust in the Maker.  Cullen sank to his knees, his eyes earnestly gazing up at Andraste's face.  And he continued to wait to feel that inner peace that had never failed to explode forth when knelt in supplication before the Bride's visage.

When the Sister continued her recitation, his voice joined hers, one voice speaking in an unenthused rote, one filled with growing desperation.

           _My Creator, judge me whole:_  
 _Find me well within Your grace._  
 _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed._  
 _Tell me I have sung to Your approval._

And still nothing came forth.  He felt none of the elation he should.  There was no soothing.  No reassurance.  No conviction.  As he stared up into her face, Cullen suddenly felt as if her gaze was just to the side of him, just behind him, unacknowledging of his despondency.  That her extended arms welcomed all but him.  Andraste's unending love was absent.

He clasped his hands together, head bending in reverence, eyes tightly shut, his entire being focused on willing his devotion to bring forth even a spark of euphoria.  Never had his faith failed to revive him.  It had saved him when he'd been in Uldred's clutches, giving him strength to endure his seemingly endless days of torment.  Trust in the Maker had sustained and guided him until the fog of madness lifted following Kinloch's near destruction.  The Chant had given him the wisdom and direction to join with Hawke in her stand against Meredith.  Yet, now, when his need was just as great, if not greater, he was left bereft.

           _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
 _Seat me by Your side in death._  
 _Make me one within Your glory._  
 _And let the world once more see Your favor._

Cullen began to pray in earnest.   _There are no words to express just how much I have disappointed You.  I have been weak.  I have sinned.  I have failed You in so many ways.  I have broken solemn vows.  Though I am no longer a Templar, my life still belongs to the Maker.  He still guides the path I walk.  I only wish to do His bidding.  Andraste, please let me feel Your gaze again.  I despair for what I have done.  I want to change.  I want to be deemed worthy in Your eyes.  The guilt and shame is overwhelming.  Without Your grace, I am nothing.  I beg You, cleanse me in Your fire.  Guide me so that I may do the Maker's will.  Know my heart.  Know my sincerity.  Allow me to serve.  Make me whole again so that I may dwell within Your splendor._

And still he felt nothing.  Cullen's cries for mercy and forgiveness went unanswered.  Andraste refused to grant him Her favor.  He sat back on his heels, staring up at Her beautiful, peaceful face.  Inside, he felt a deep void of barrenness, a giant desolate chasm, where once his faith could be found.  His last cornerstone had crumbled, the foundation of his being fracturing and eroding away.  He was no longer a Templar, no longer a good and righteous man, and, now, the Maker's Bride was callously ignoring his pleas.

Unbidden, seditious thoughts appeared, growing and spreading from the deepest, darkest part of him.  Just as he had questioned the purposes of the Order and the Circles earlier, he began to question his faith.  Was Andraste silent to his prayer because She disapproved of him, or was the silence because She didn't exist?  Did he believe in the Maker?  Had he ever truly believed?  Had he merely accepted the teaching of the Chantry as truth without any sort of reservation?  Was his prostrating himself at the base of a statue because he wanted to, or because he felt he had to?  Had his faith been sincere or had it sprung from the euphoria brought on by lyrium?

He wanted to be an honorable person, yet it seemed as if being moral was doing what was right, no matter what he was told.  In contrast, serving the Chantry was doing what he was told, no matter what was right.  He would never had Claimed Evelyn, never have raped her, enslaved her, if not for the Chantry's mandate.  The Chantry was founded because Andraste led _the_ Exalted March to free the slaves from the Imperium, and yet that very same Chantry insisted that all apostates, no matter the circumstance, be enslaved.  How many other choices had he made based solely on the Chantry's directives?  Blindly following orders rather than considering the correctness of it?  Eventually, he heaved a great sigh.  There would be no answers, no resolutions, no comfort in knowing he was on the right path.  He could only do one thing: depend upon himself. He would have to depend on his skills and his own moral compass.

He didn't need the euphoria of faith to lead Most Holy's army.  He didn't need to be a member of the Templar Order to be a skilled warrior.  His past may have shaped him, for good and for ill, but it need not define who he was right now or who he would become.  If he wasn't the man he wanted to be, he could change.  And he would start with how he treated Evelyn.  She would no longer be useless baggage in his eyes.  She deserved, better and he would do everything in his power to make certain she got it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portions of the Chant belong to Bioware.
> 
> I paraphrased the following quote in this chapter.
> 
> “Morality is doing what is right, no matter what you are told. Religion is doing what you are told, no matter what is right.”  
> attr. H. L. Mencken (c.1925)


	13. Chapter 13

Cullen stood at the Chantry door, hand braced against its smooth surface.  He was fiercely crushing down all the uncertainties, the misgivings, his faults and flaws, boxing them up, hiding them deep away.  In this moment, he was still just Cullen, damaged, flawed, pathetic.  As soon as he strode through the door, he would need to transform into Commander Rutherford, head of Divine's army, the man tasked with bringing peace to all of the Thedas.  _He_ was not permitted to have qualms.  _He_ was not allowed shortcomings.  _He_ was confident, decisive, strong, and sure.

It might be a sham.  It might be nothing more than play-acting, but it was necessary.  Soldiers needed to have complete and utter faith in their leader.  The longer, harder he worked at deceiving them with the visage of the perfect Commander Rutherford, he might actually trick himself into believing it too.  If he was to become the man he yearned to be, he had to put aside Cullen the weak, Cullen the disappointment, Cullen the woefully lacking.  He had to, somehow, _become_ Commander Rutherford in not just actions and deeds, but in his thoughts.  Not just in the perceptions of others, but in his own as well.

Eventually, he pushed open the door, blinking painfully at the dazzling morning light after the hours spent in the dim sanctuary.  It took only a quick glance at the sun's position to determine it was well past the eighth bell.  His futile attempt at absolution had taken considerably longer than he had realized and now he was late for his meeting with his bumbling new assistant.

At the base of the stairs, a large throng was massed around the Chantry board.  Through the crowd, Cullen could make out a large placard with the image of Divine Justinia and the word _Conclave_ prominent at its top.  He gave an approving nod.  Leliana was wasting no time getting the word out about the unprecedented conference.  The more the word spread, the easier his task of raising an army would be.

The street that had been empty and silent when he had made his trek to the Chantry was now a bustling hive of activity, people jostling each other as they hurried to their destinations.  As he headed back to the inn, he expected to struggle to push his way against the tide.  Instead, Cullen found a corridor open, the crowds stepping deferentially aside with appreciative nods.  At first, he put the reactions down to the fact that he still wore the armor of a Templar.  Amaranthines were well known to be strong supporters of the Order and those who served in it.  Yet, the farther he walked, the more surreal the reactions became.  He passed a gaggle of giggling young maidens who waved enthusiastically at him.  Merchants bowed as he strode by.  He noticed a few people studying his face and gasping, almost as if they recognized him, as if they _knew of him.  Knew of Cullen Rutherford._   He heard clusters of people asking, "Is that him?"  On more than one occasion, a hand would reach out, touching him respectfully.  There were prayers of, "May the Maker guide your steps," and "Andraste, bless and keep you safe."

It was almost a relief when he finally turned onto the street where the lodge was located.  Sula, Declan, Evelyn, and Jim were outside, clustered in front of a message board.  Jim was busy hammering a placard of the Divine that Declan held against the signboard.  Evelyn, hair bound yet again in an unflattering bun, stood behind them, her arms laden with scores of long, rolled parchments.  He noted, sullenly, that Sula had the dreaded messenger bag full of missives looped over her shoulder.

While Jim and Declan were busy adding another placard to the signboard, Sula took one of the thick parchments from Evelyn's arm.  She unrolled it, taking a moment to study it closely, first tilting her head in one direction and then the other.  Holding it out so Evelyn could view it, a sly grin grew as she asked the mage, "What do you think?"

"I suppose it's a good likeness."  Her voice was quiet, uncertain.

"That's all you have to say, Evelyn?" Sula mocked.  "It's a good likeness?  You must have something to say about his appearance."

As perplexing as the conversation was, Cullen was especially mystified by Evelyn's reaction.  She began shifting uneasily, her mouth opening and closing without uttering a word.  It was clear, even to him, that Evelyn would rather be anywhere than standing under the Templar's teasing gaze.

"Oh come on."  A playful tone began coloring Sula's voice.  "Half the Circle mages in Kirkwall _longed_ to spend a night, or more, in his bed.  Surely, as his Claimed, you've formed an opinion about his looks."

Evelyn paled alarmingly.  If the mage's arm hadn't been loaded with rolled up posters, Cullen was certain her scarred hand would have been tightly fisted and hidden in the folds of her clothes -- a tendency of hers whenever she was upset.  He was about to intervene, to divert Sula from her teasing of the apprehensive mage when Evelyn's next words stopped him short.

The answer was reluctant but, even from where he stood, the mage's words were clear.  "Of course Cullen is handsome.  Anyone can see that."

Sula turned back to study the message board with a smug expression.  In contrast, Cullen was dumbstruck.  For a few heartbeats, he was flattered.  He couldn't be a complete monster in her eyes if she thought him attractive.  It wasn't much but perhaps there _was_ a foundation for them to build a better relationship.  His resolution to reach a better understanding with the mage chained to his side seemed not as daunting with her revelation.  And it didn't hurt to get a boost to his tattered ego.  His spirits lifted and his outlook brightened.

Then his self-esteem crashed as quickly as it had risen.  Perhaps it was because she was less guarded in that moment, believing she was unobserved, or perhaps it was that he was getting better at reading Evelyn's mannerisms.  The relief on her face was fleeting, but it was enough.  It was obvious she hadn't meant what she said, hadn't meant that she found him attractive.  She had only said what was necessary, had simply said what was expected of her, had lied to put an end to Sula's prying.

Even if he wanted her to begin thinking him handsome, kind and honorable, how would he ever know she spoke the truth unless he used his contemptible power over her?  How would he ever be able to trust what she said?  Evelyn would say anything, do anything, to survive.  He couldn't blame her.  She was in an untenable situation -- completely at his mercy, treated terribly by his own hand since the ill-fated moment they met, at risk of being permanently altered should she displease him.  Who wouldn't lie, wouldn't pretend to be concerned about their captor's well-being in the same situation?  If he ever wanted to gain her trust, if he was ever to get the chance to know the real Evelyn, he would have to stick to his resolution to treat her better, to show that he was concerned for her welfare, to try to help her realize her worth not only in his eyes but in her own as well.

He stepped towards the group, resolved to use this opportunity to start anew with Evelyn.  As expected, the wary mage was the first to spot him.  To put her at ease, Cullen plastered an odd, watery smile on his face, the muscles already aching from the unfamiliar use.  It must have looked as strange as it felt because Evelyn began fidgeting nervously, the rolled posters she held rustling with the movement.  He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and tongue-tied.  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained as he said, "Good morning, Evelyn.  Did you sleep ..."  His voice trailed off when Jim and Declan stepped away from the message board.

Like the one at the Chantry, it held a large poster of Divine Justinia.  Unlike at the Chantry, there was a second placard.  He stood there, slack-jawed, not quite able to process what he was seeing.  His shock gave way to mortification which in turn gave way to seething indignation.  His nostrils flared, breath coming in short, hot pants, fists tightening ominously.  "What is this?" Cullen snarled as he stared at the offending poster.

Sula began giggling which grew to a full belly chortle as he pierced her with a disgruntled glare.  Cullen's glower moved on to Declan who was unsuccessfully trying to hide his grin.  Evelyn looked ready to bolt and Jim was simply perplexed.

"It's a recruitment poster," Jim answered, scratching his head at having to explain something so obvious.

Cullen frowned at the offending placard, the memory of Leliana's instructions back in Kirkwall floating in his brain.  _Just sit there and look pretty._   It was disconcerting to have his hazel eyes gazing back at him.  The image was ridiculously stylized, with a ray of sunlight creating a halo around his blond locks, a smirk lifting his scarred lip, and a shadow of stubble along his jaw.  He unconsciously lifted a hand to run along his chin, noting the necessity to shave at the earliest opportunity.  His automatic action only increased Sula and Declan's mirth, even Jim joined in by grinning in amusement at Cullen's discomfort.

"Take. It. Down," he growled.

"I can't do that, Commander," Jim responded as he came to attention.  "Sister Nightingale was quite precise in her instructions.  Every town is to be plastered with information fliers about the Conclave and about our efforts to raise an army.  Placards of both Most Holy and you are to be hung in every prominent location."

"Sister Nightingale is not here.  I am.  Take. It. Down."

Jim winced with consternation.  "She also said that you are not permitted to counter her order.  They must be hung no matter what you say."  His gaze dropped anxiously down to Cullen's tightening fists.  "Nor what you may threaten."

Before he could blister his subordinate's ears, Sula stepped forward and dropped a chummy arm around his shoulders.  "Accept it, Cullen.  You're the poster boy of Most Holy's army.  Nothing's going to change that.  Let it go."

Cullen grumbled under his breath.  He was a talented enough tactician to know he'd been outmaneuvered ... for the moment.  It would take great thought and planning but he'd exact his revenge on Leliana for this embarrassment.  For now, though, there was little he could do.  "Fine," he huffed.  "Jim, make sure I _never_ see them."

"I, uh ... I'll do my best, ser."  He looked as if he'd swallowed a hornet's nest as he took the rolled posters back from Evelyn.

Cullen took a deep breath, letting the irritation trickle away, readying himself to focus on the work ahead.  "Where have you chosen for the recruitment site?"

"It's a grand location I've chosen, Commander."  Jim beamed proudly.  "The main marketplace will ..."

"No."

Jim looked surprised at Cullen's emphatic refusal.  "No?  But it's just the sort of spot I was told to look for.  Large and centrally located with plenty of foot traffic.  The marketplace is ..."

For a second time, he cut off his assistant.  "Out of the question.  We need a large, open area where we can test the candidates physical prowess, where we can talk with the applicants.  We'll need space to set up tables for the signing of contracts.  The main market is too noisy and congested.  What are your alternative sites?"

"Alternative sites?"  Jim mumbled for a bit, his face a touch worried.  "I hadn't really considered any other locations but I suppose I could ... that is, maybe ..."  Jim looked around helplessly, crestfallen because he had failed to deliver on his first major assignment.

And just as quickly, his irritation returned.  Jim was like any other raw recruit, not too unlike himself actually when he had first joined the Order.  Enthusiastic, keen, but without a wit of common sense.  Like Jim, Cullen had been an inept dolt initially.  How many times had Greagoir shaken his head with amusement at his many failed attempts, at all the times he hadn't completely considered an assignment?  Eagerness was important but it needed to be honed with practical experience.  Jim would learn, just as Cullen had, to have contingency plans, to balance the pros versus cons of any given situation and decide upon the best course of action.  He simply needed time, experience, and a firm, but understanding, guiding hand.  Unfortunately for his assistant, time was already in short supply and Cullen had more than enough responsibilities bearing down on his shoulders.  Jim would simply have to figure it all out for himself.

"Cullen, may I ..." Evelyn soft voice began.

At the same moment, Declan spoke.  "There is ..."

"Not now, Evelyn," Cullen snapped impatiently, the reflexive impulse to lash out at her striking before he realized it.  "Whatever it is can wait."  He had a lot to accomplish in a short span of time.  There were contracts to negotiate, supplies and equipment to purchase, and recruits to sign up.  Time was slipping away.  The bells began ringing, marking another hour had passed which only increased his frustration levels.  A site needed to be selected and it needed to be now.  He couldn't afford to squander hours traipsing all over the city looking for an appropriate location, much less whatever inconsequential request the mage might have.

He looked expectedly at Declan, completely dismissing Evelyn.  "You have a suggestion?"

The Templar tore his concerned gaze from the quavering mage.  "Yes," he reluctantly responded.  "There's a smaller marketplace near where the Jim and the other men are camping.  It has an adjacent large field and plenty of space for all our needs."

Cullen nodded with satisfaction.  "Very good.  Take us there."

"Not just yet," Sula interrupted.  The irritation in her voice was hard to miss.  "We need to talk," she said with a pointed look at Evelyn.

He could tell by her stormy expression he wasn't going to like what she had to say.  As her superior officer, he could pull rank, tell her to keep her personal opinions to herself.  But, judging from past experience, it would be pointless to try to put his friend off, not even for the short span of time it would take them to walk to the recruitment site.  Sula wasn't the sort to let things go, and, as much as he was loathe to admit, her impressions were usually correct.  "Fine," he answered almost sulkily as he moved away from the others.  If Sula was going to give him a dressing down he'd rather it be out of the earshot of Declan, Jim, and Evelyn.  When he was satisfied they had a modicum of privacy, he turned towards his friend, folding his arms defiantly across his chest.  "Have your say quickly so we can get back to what's important."

Sula's flashing eyes let him know he had taken the wrong tack.  "Ass!  That poor child has been fretting since the moment I fetched her from your room this morning.  She's been working up the courage to approach you with a simple request and you snap at her before she could even ask.  Are you even capable of being anything but a complete wanker to her?"

Remorse filled him instantly.  Not even a quarter of a bell in Evelyn's presence and he had already broken his resolution to treat her better.  Sula was correct.  He was an ass, a wanker, as well as a whole host of other loathsome traits.  In all this time, Evelyn had not once asked for anything, not one single thing.  Not even for a hot bath and clean clothes when they had reached Kirkwall.  He wanted her to let him know when she wanted something but when she finally tried, he had cut her off.

He rubbed at his neck.  "What does she want?"

"I'm not the one you need to ask.  You want to know what Evelyn wants, you speak _with her_."  Sula then took the messenger bag she had looped over her shoulder and thrust it at him.  "It's past time for you to start taking care of your responsibilities," she snapped as she stalked back to where the others were waiting.

The leather strap felt heavy in his palm, heavier still was the guilt weighing upon him.  He couldn't keep his gaze from Evelyn.  That she was fearful was obvious enough.  The mage kept glancing in his direction then quickly dropping her eyes down to her feet.  Her scarred hand had disappeared amongst the folds of her ill-fitting clothes.  But there was more than her ever-present fear he detected.  Her lips dipped down faintly with ... sadness?  Frustration?  Disappointment?  He couldn't be certain.  Her brown eyes were rounded with distress yet it was of a different timbre to her usual anxiety.  Whatever was upsetting her went beyond being on a busy street full of strangers or fearing what he might do to her.

"Evelyn, come here," he finally called.

Her steps were heavy and reluctant as she walked the short distance to his side.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to interrupt.  It won't happen again.  I ... I..."  Her mouth opened and closed several times until she finally stopped, eyes downcast, waiting expectantly for whatever punishment he would dole out.

"Evelyn," he said gently.  "What did you want to ask me?"

She shook her head.  "It isn't important.  I shouldn't have asked."

He could feel his irritation growing but kept a tight leash on it.  If they had to stand there all day, he would get Evelyn to make her request.  "But you didn't ask.  I didn't give you the chance."

She shook her head for a second time, keeping her gaze carefully in the space between their feet.  "It isn't important," Evelyn repeated.

"Look at me," he said harshly, perturbed that she wouldn't even look at him when conversing, regretting his tone when her eyes snapped up to gaze directly into his.  Cullen carefully modulated his voice, not wanting to issue any more unintentional Commands.  "Please tell me what you want."  When she continued to be silent, he bit back the sigh that threatened to escape.  "We're not leaving this spot until you make your request.  I'd prefer you do so willingly rather than be Ordered."

He had to strain to hear her softly spoken words over the din in the street.  The request so astonished him that it took a few heartbeats before he could comprehend what she had said.  "You want to go to morning service at the Chantry?"  At her meek nod, he was struck dumb for the second time that morning by Evelyn.  In the Circles, attendance at Chantry services was mandatory.  Most of the mages had resented it and did whatever they could to evade it.  Few, if any, went beyond lip-service in their expression of devotion to Andraste.  In contrast, before him stood a mage that had been terribly mistreated by the Chantry, enslaved by its policies, and it seemed that all she wanted was to attend its service.  But was this her true desire?  She had lied earlier when she called him handsome because that was what was expected of her.  Could it be she was feigning faith merely to appease him in some way?

"You don't have to attend services."

"Oh."  A shimmer of tears appeared in her eyes, her mouth dipping down with regret despite her efforts to maintain a neutral expression.  "I understand.  There are more important things that require your attention.  I'm sorry for delaying you.  It won't happen again."

He grabbed her wrist when she started to turn away.  "Wait.  Do you truly want to go to the Chantry?"

She looked up at him, her eyes continuing to fill with unshed tears.  "I know you have more pressing matters.  It's just ... I haven't been able to go to worship since ... since leaving Ostwick and ..."

"And?" he asked when she stopped speaking.

Her voice was filled with longing, with an intense desire.  "I need to repent of my sins, to beg forgiveness for all my failings.  I don't know when I'll get another chance."

How could he deny her?  Hadn't he sought out the Chantry in the middle of the night, prostrating himself at the base of Andraste's statue for that same purpose?  He hadn't found succor from his prayers, had found his devotion lacking but if Evelyn could find some measure of comfort in her faith, he could hardly refuse the request.  "Jim," he called out.  "Do you know where this location is?"

The scout nodded.  "Yes, Commander, but I still think the ..."

"Good.  Take us there."  Cullen quickly cut him off.  "Declan, you will accompany Evelyn to the Chantry so she may attend morning worship.  Join us at the recruitment site afterward."

It was Evelyn's turn to be dumbstruck.  "I may go?  Truly?"

"Yes, truly.  May the Maker find you well within His grace."  Even to his own ears, his voice seemed hollow and lacking, his bitterness at no longer being able to feel the euphoria of faith coloring his words, but the mage didn't notice.  Her anxiety melted away, the tears shimmering at the edge of her brown eyes disappearing.

He gave the mage one final look before falling in line behind Jim.  Sula slid up to walk beside him, a smug smirk on her lips.  "You're still a wanker but maybe not a complete one.  It was fun watching the two of you struggling to hold a conversation.  Evelyn is as socially inept as you."

Cullen grunted sourly but otherwise ignored her.

When they reached the proposed site, he was pleasantly surprised.  The marketplace was mostly composed of armorers, blacksmiths, and bowyers.  There were also a few merchants specializing in travel provisions and goods.  Most of the needed supplies and equipment could be purchased here which would save him having to trudge all over town.  The adjacent field was spacious, perfect for testing the physical aptitude of the applicants.  All in all, Cullen couldn't have been more pleased with the location.

Jim's fellow scouts started setting up trestle tables under some of the shade trees and the curious were already beginning to assemble.  Interspersed within the crowd, Cullen spotted a few youths who likely wanted to inquire about signing up but lacked the bravery to be the first to step forward.

"Shall we give them a show?" Sula asked.  "Nothing like a sword fight to stir the imagination and get this lot fired up."

"Sure.  I can use the exercise and a demonstration couldn't hurt the cause."  They moved to an open area, drawing their swords and readying their shields.  His body dropped into fighting stance naturally.  Cullen had many doubts and fears but none of them extended to his prowess on the field of battle.  They began circling each other, following the carefully choreographed routine they had developed over the years.

The crowd thickened, captivated as the two expert swordsmen met weapon with shield, moving in a complicated dance of lunges, strikes, and counterstrikes.  Cullen felt alive as he had not for months.  The weight of the sword in his palm, the strain of muscles raising the shield, the burn in his lungs, the rapid dance of his feet, the sweat starting to form on his brow.  Sula moved to her right, preparing to lunge with her sword before moving to bash him with her shield.  He was already setting up his countermove.  Step into the strike.  Knock the sword from her hand.  Meet the shield with his own.  Then repeatedly bash at her until she stumbled, ending with his sword pointing at her neck.

That was the plan.  That was the routine.  He stepped into the strike, swatting away her sword.  Her shield came towards him.  He readied himself, bracing his body, beginning to raise his shield to meet hers.  Only ... from the edge of his field of vision, he caught sight of Evelyn returning, anguished and crying.  Beside her strode Declan, his face clouded with fury.  In his distraction, Cullen failed to stop Sula's shield.  It smashed into his side, knocking him to the ground.

He wheezed painfully as he regained his footing.  Sula was instantly at his side, demanding to know if he was hurt.  Ignoring her, he focused his attention fully on the distressed mage and fuming Templar.  Before he had even reached them, he was loudly demanding, "What happened?"

Evelyn grew even more distraught, shirking back as if fearing he would strike her.  She looked helplessly towards Declan, unwilling or unable to speak.

The Templar had no such trouble.  Agitated, he burst out, "The guards at the Chantry refused us entry.  Said no Maker-cursed mage, even accompanied by a Templar, would be allowed in to corrupt the faithful or befoul the sacredness of the sanctuary."

"Leave us," he said to Declan.  Cullen was furious.  Not with his Templar but with the Chantry.  They would deny entry to a true Andrastian, a woman who merely wished to practice her faith, all because she was a mage?  Evelyn watched him, trembling with fear, believing, most likely, she was the cause of his fury.  His rage cooled somewhat.  "Are you alright?"

She nodded, tears still flowing down her cheeks.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't know it was forbidden.  I wouldn't have asked permission to go if I had known."

Her words only flamed his outrage.  The Chantry was supposed to embrace peasant and noble alike, the faithful and the wayward, Templar and, yes, even mage.  She, who tried to seek succor in its walls, should never have been denied and certainly should not believe it was prohibited to her.  Evelyn had asked to go and he would see it done.  "I will take you to evening services."

"But the guards said ..."

"I don't care what they said," he answered harshly.  "You will go to evening service."

With her timid nod, the conversation ended.  He settled Evelyn against an old stone wall and spent the rest of the day focusing on the work at hand.  Cullen stood for several hours being arduously measured for his new armor.  The bundle of thin ropes, each with a series of precisely tied off knots, was handed off to Jim who assured him it would be sent on to Haven at the earliest opportunity.  He perused the merchants wares, spoke with a few likely candidates, and grumbled when another overstuffed messenger bag was handed off to him.  The bells passed quickly and soon the sky was beginning to blossom with the oranges and reds of the setting sun.

He strolled over to where Evelyn sat, holding out a hand to assist her up.  "Are you ready?"

She nodded dutifully but he could tell she was uncertain.  As with Cullen's trek from the Chantry that morning, the people in the lane gladly parted to let the man clad in Templar armor pass.  There were expressions of gratitude, smiles and good humor abounded.  The sentiment of appreciation for the Templar ran high.  The mood changed, however, once individuals began noticing the red-rune marked metal band around Evelyn's neck.  The smiles turned to glares.  Gratitude morphed to hatred and alarm.  Mothers, who had been excitedly pointing out the Templar to their children, began clutching them close to their sides, scurrying fearfully away.  There were curses and scowls, and more than a few spiteful grins.  Angry mutterings filled the air.  "Filthy apostate," and "Defier of the Chantry," were uttered a number of times.  One particularly bold woman shouted, "You should have been killed rather than chained, demon's whore."

Through it all, Evelyn seemed oblivious to the scorn thrown her way.  She kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her expression unconcerned.  There wasn't even a sign of the general nervousness that overtook her when faced with a large number of strangers.  The only indication of her discomfort Cullen could detect was the subtle flexing of her scarred hand.  Resting his hand significantly on the pommel of his sword, he moved closer to her, answering each glare from the crowd with one of his own.  With hostility towards mages running so high, he made a quick decision that at no time would Evelyn be unaccompanied while they remained inside Amaranthine's walls.

Since learning Evelyn had been turned away that morning, he had kept his indignation carefully contained.  When he started leading her through the streets, he released the reins on his temper, encouraging it to smolder and grow.  The crowd's reaction had further kindled his storm of outrage.  He was now prepared for a fight, itching for one actually.  So he was rather disappointed when, instead of the hoped for confrontation, the guards standing to either side of the Chantry entrance took one look at his resolute face and meekly ushered in the pious Claimed and her livid Templar.

The sanctuary was bathed in the glow of candlelight.  The heavy cloying scent of burning incense choking the air.  Some parishioners were already seated along the long benches.  Others congregated in small groups, conversing quietly amongst themselves.  Cullen felt a pang standing at the back of the great hall.  His barrenness of faith continued, the ice-cold tundra of emptiness remained.

Evelyn was hovering beside him, waiting to follow him into the sanctuary.  "Go on.  I'll remain here."  He would see that the mage found what she sought within the hallowed hall but he would not participate in a farce of devotion.  She hesitated a moment, casting a quick glance at her scarred hand.  She then took a nearly imperceptible steadying breath before walking slowly up the aisle.  As was her tendency, Evelyn surprised him once again.  Instead of selecting a row near the back of the chamber, she walked steadily forward, choosing a bench near the front of the hall.  She appeared unaware of the scathing looks thrown her way or the scurrying of worshippers away from the pew she chose.

From where he stood, Cullen could see Evelyn's look of intense longing as she beheld the statue of Andraste.  Had he had the same expression last night when he implored to feel Her grace?  Would Evelyn leave the Chantry as disappointed and empty as he had?  He sincerely hoped that would not be the case.  The mage had little in her life, enslaved by a beast of a man because of the laws of the religion she was dedicated to, hated and mistrusted through no fault of her own by the general populace.  She, at least, had her faith to sustain her.

Evelyn knelt on the floor in front of the bench, hands folded in supplication, head bowed in reverence.  She remained there, caught up in her prayers until the bells chimed the start of the service.  As she settled back on her seat, a procession of Sisters, Mothers, and the Grand Cleric began filling the dais.  Evelyn sat with perfect posture, back ramrod straight, her hands folded demurely in her lap.  Cullen noted she was careful to keep her mutilated hand from view.

While the Grand Cleric was assisted to her throne-like chair, a woman, marked by her mantle as the Senior Mother, stepped towards the podium on which sat a massive tome of the Chant of Light.  "May the Maker embrace you today and forever."

The audience, including Evelyn, completed the ritual, chanting "Blessed be the Maker and His Bride."

"Hear now the word of the Maker.  Today's reading is from Canticle of Exaltations."

From her chair, the Grand Cleric was scanning the audience.  She may have been aged but her dark eyes were still sharp, spotting Cullen where he stood in the shadows of the great hall.  "Hold."  Rising carefully, she stood tall and unbent, her frame gaunt and almost skeletal.  "I will lead the service today."  The Grand Cleric approached the podium, her hand resting on the great book.  "We have an honored visitor with us."  She bowed deeply towards him, the other Chantry folk following suit.  The worshippers rose as well, respectfully bowing as well.  Evelyn began to rise, to join in with the others.  At the decisive shake of his head, she stayed put, gnawing worriedly on her bottom lip.

"Blessed be, esteemed Templar.  The Maker truly sanctifies this service by sending you to join us in our praise of Him."

Cullen neither acknowledged the praise of the Grand Cleric nor the reverence of the parishioners, choosing instead to continue looking at Evelyn, acting as if he had heard none of it.

The Grand Cleric took it in stride, nodding with deference before opening the heavy tome.  "Today's reading will be from the Canticle of Benedictions.  _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.  Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  In their blood the Maker's will is written."_

Cullen wracked his memory to recall the name of the Grand Cleric.  She'd served in Amaranthine for decades, first as a Mother and then promoted to Grand Cleric shortly before Dorothea had ascended the Sunburst Throne to become Divine Justinia.  Laylen, he remembered her name suddenly.  Known to be a staunch champion of Templars and the Order, and a sycophant of the Knight-Vigilant.  Rumored to have been one of the main voices in support of instituting the policy of Claiming.

"We must, my friends, pray for the Templars daily.  We must pay homage to them with our every action, with our every thought.  It is because of them we can grow our crops, sell our goods, raise our children, and live our lives in peace and prosperity.  We owe everything to them.  Blessed are they who partake of the solemn vow to stand against the darkness, to stand against the corruption, to stand for the people of Thedas, to stand for you and me."  Grand Cleric Laylen's voice was strong and rousing, the effects of her words rippling through the audience.  "Where would we be without our noble protectors?  They who answer the Maker's call to defend the innocent face dangers untold are deserving of our praise and support.  They are the standards to which we should work to aspire."

Cullen felt unsettled.  Evelyn had wanted to find comfort within the Chantry walls, instead she would have to endure a sermon about the virtues of her jailors, of the merit and respectability of the man who had enslaved her.  But the Grand Cleric was not content with merely preaching her praise of the Order.  Her tone quickly changed from respectful to intolerant.

"And why do our righteous guardians need risk their lives daily to protect us?  Without them, without their dedication, without their sacrifices, we would be awash with the foul, evil taint of magic, at the mercy of Maker-cursed mages.  We need only look to history to reveal their deceitful, corrupting nature.  Mages sought to become gods themselves by breaching the very gates of the Golden City.  Their reckless use of magic blackened it.  They became darkspawn and thus brought about the first Blight.  They ordered Andraste be burned at the stake.  They celebrated her impending death.  They enslave and enthrall innocents.  They practice blood magic.  They consort with demons."

He continued to stare at Evelyn during the Grand Cleric's sermon.  Her face was serene, captivated even, despite the harsh vilification being spoken.  The mage's lips had begun moving in silent prayer or perhaps she was reciting the Chant.  He really couldn't discern exactly what she was mouthing.  He wanted to shake his head.  Solona Amell would never have stood for this.  The Grey Warden would have shouted down Laylen, countering every one of the Grand Cleric's statements with one of her own about the virtues of magic, the sacrifices mages have made for the good of Thedas.  He nearly snorted at the thought of Marian Hawke attending a service.  She held the Chantry in as much disdain as it held for her.  Likely, the impetuous mage would have started a dice game on its very steps or had an impromptu concert of ribald tavern tunes, complete with an overfilled tankard in her hand, rather than sully herself by entering the hallowed hall.

"Mages are not like you and me.  They are conniving, always devious.  Remember the lesson from Transfigurations.  _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.  They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  They shall find no peace in this world or beyond.  All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings.  Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker._   Mages cannot resist their depraved ways.  They are incapable of refraining from their desire to possess us, control us, enslave us with their demonic powers."

Grand Cleric Laylen shook her head angrily.  "By their very nature, they are foul and corrupt to the core.  Nothing will change that.  There is only one solution.  There is only one way to keep good and innocent people protected.  Mages must be kept away from us, kept isolated and guarded behind strong encircling stone walls so they may do no harm.  They are not like us and should not live amongst us.  Only when every mage is separated from us can decent folk be safe.  Yet the Chantry is merciful.  Instead of killing these monstrosities as perhaps they should, the Chantry gifted them the Circles."

Why would Evelyn contentedly endure such condemnation?  Why did she continue to sit there being maligned with every word?  Amell wouldn't have.  Nor would Hawke.  As ever Evelyn perplexed Cullen and he found his almost constant frustration with her growing.  He wanted to grab her, shake her, demand to know why she didn't speak up, why she didn't try to defend herself.  But it wasn't in her nature.  Evelyn wouldn't squeak unless Ordered.  She wouldn't move even her smallest finger in defiance or defense.  She was the epitome of the what the Chantry thought a perfect mage should be:  meek and submissive and completely broken.  Just as the Chantry wanted her.  Just as the Order wanted her.

Shock ran through him.  Just as he was _supposed_ to want her.  In the eyes of the Circles, in the eyes of the Order, in the eyes of the Chantry, Hawke and Amell were appalling mages.  They were proud, confident, independent, and strong-willed ... and he loved them for it.  Evelyn was the perfect meek, submissive mage and he felt nothing but contempt for her.  Evelyn tried everything she could to please him and in return he snarled like a wild mabari.  She cringed and he struck.  She mewled.  He barked.  Her fear of him made him feel like a monster which in turn made him become the monster she feared.  But why?

Why should she provoke such emotions in him?  Why would this innocent, fragile, passive mage rouse the ravening beast within him?  As a Templar, it was expected that he would help produce mages like Evelyn.  It had been his duty to break mages, to trod them down under his stern heel, to force them to conform to the Order's conventions.  Yet it was the very mages he was supposed to despise, supposed to hate, supposed to distrust that he had come to admire, to respect, to value, and even to love in his own way.  Solona and Marion hadn't conformed to the expectations of the Chantry.  They had challenged it.  They were fiercely proud of their magic and the good they could do with it.  They suffered no fools, refusing to acknowledge any who condemned them for their magical gifts.

And with that, all the pieces snapped into place.  He didn't despise Evelyn.  He reviled himself.  He didn't dislike the woman she was.  He hated the man he had become.  He had been directing his self-loathing onto the poor Claimed mage instead of where it belonged, firmly pointed inward.  Every time he looked at her, he saw what he was supposed to have done, what he was supposed to have worked towards.  He was supposed to have helped produce mages like Evelyn and not mages of Solona and Marian's temperment.  He hadn't joined the Order to break mages, but to encourage, nurture, and protect them.  Evelyn was merely the embodiment of his years of deception and he had abused her because of it.

The Grand Cleric's gaze turned malevolent as she turned to stare down at the lone mage sitting isolated in the pews.  "There are, however, mages who are not content to be coddled and enjoy the luxurious, easy life given them in the Circles, where they do not need labor daily to put food on the table and a roof over their head.  There are mages who continue to defy the Chantry, who continue to defy the Order, who decide they do not want the pampering and protection the Circles offer them.  And for that defiance, they get their just rewards.  It is the Maker's will.  It is Andraste's will.  It is the will of the Chantry.  It is the will of the Order and it is the will of the people.  These _apostates,_ these _maleficar,_ " she sneered, "should lose their freedom, should lose their will, should lose even their personhood.  Noble is the Templar who Claims an apostate."  Her gaze became respectful as it returned to rest on Cullen.  "It is my hope, as it is the Maker's will, that you punish daily your Claimed for her defiance, for her insolence, for her apostasy."

Evelyn was mostly a mystery to him but he knew she was no apostate and certainly no maleficar.  She likely fled Ostwick from fear rather than defiance.  Evelyn was meek and docile, undeserving of the hate thrown her way.  She would never stand against the vileness of Laylen.  The same could not be said of him.

Cullen's boots clanged loudly against the marble flooring as he strode up the aisle, stopping just behind where the mage sat.  His glare was insolent, his posture defiant.  "Come Evelyn!  I'll not permit you to endure this druffalo shit any longer."

Cullen ignored the gasps of outrage, and the one or two sniggers, as he led the mage away from the hostile environment.  He paused at the door, not quite finished with his confrontation with the Grand Cleric.  "It would do you good to remember that you owe much to mages.  It was a mage that stopped the Blight.  And it was that same mage who saved this city from the darkspawn, sacrificing the lives of a good number of her noble companions in the effort.  If Amell had asked me, I would have told her to let the cesspit that is Amaranthine be left to the taint instead."

He yanked opened the door, signaling Evelyn to proceed him, enjoying the booming echo of the door as he slammed it behind him.


	14. Chapter 14 - Explicit and NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must thank Sapluscious for the insult Cullen uses in the first paragraph. It is absolutely perfect and I could never have come up with anything better. It is used here with her permission.
> 
> As always, I am grateful to bushviper for her fantastic feedback and suggestions. She steered me away from making a terrible mistake in this chapter ... and her ideas turned it into exactly what I had been envisioning but couldn't figure out how to achieve it.

The slamming of the Chantry door had done little to alleviate Cullen's burning indignation. It was bad enough that Evelyn had been denied entry to morning services, had been led to believe she was undeserving of practicing her faith, but to have that ... that ... that _evil-minded toad's ass carbuncle_ spew such malicious, intolerant venom at such a pious, innocent woman ...

He stopped suddenly. He'd been so infuriated when he had stormed out of the temple, his only thought had been to get as far from it as quickly as he could. He hadn't really considered Evelyn at all in that moment. Cullen turned, relieved to see her just a few feet behind, practically running to keep up with his considerably longer stride. That she was wary he expected. He hadn't given her any reason yet to lessen her fear of him. Not to mention, she had just witnessed him insult a high-ranking official of her faith. But he hadn't expected to see confusion on her young face.

"What did I do wrong?" she blurted. They were both shocked by her uncharacteristic boldness. She gave a soft gasp, her dark brown eyes growing more fretful. "I ... I only ask so that I don't repeat my mistake," she rushed to explain.

If the situation weren't so disgustingly piteous, Cullen might have shaken his head at her typical impulse to assume the fault in any and every situation. He felt the sharp, familiar anger return -- no longer wrongly focused on the mage at his side, nor directed at himself as it should have been all this time, but at the nameless, faceless men and women who had worked so effectively to create this downtrodden, guilt-ridden, petrified mage.

"I am the one at fault. After you were refused entrance this morning, I should have expected there would be some sort of retaliation when we returned for the evening service. If I had known the Grand Cleric would attack you in her sermon, I wouldn't have insisted on bringing you." He lifted his hand to cup her chin, ignoring the way she flinched, and gently guided her face to meet his.

She resisted at first, her eyes flittering from his chin to his earlobe to his forehead, anywhere but into his. He waited patiently, wanting her to see his sincerity, rubbing a calloused thumb softly along her cheekbone to put her at ease. Eventually she calmed, and with great hesitancy, directed her eyes to his.

"I'm sorry," he started gently. "I shouldn't have let you endure such poisonous lies."

Shock and confusion seemed to untie her tongue when normally she would have stayed silent, particularly since she was disagreeing with him. "But her Grace spoke only the truth."

"You can't honestly believe that?" He regretted his harsh tone when she instinctively pulled away from his touch. Reigning in his vexation, Cullen tried again. "Help me understand, Evelyn. Tell me why you believe her?" She looked troubled and uncertain. Was she just going to tell him what she thought he wanted to hear? Was she worried that she might be punished if she answered incorrectly? Was she about to lie to him?

Her eyes darted up to look into the star-filled sky. The action somehow emboldened her and she started speaking as if by ingrained rote. "The Chant teaches that mages ordered Andraste's death and that they held great celebrations as she walked to the mighty pyre that would take her life. Mages caused the Black City to be. Mages spill the blood of innocents to increase their powers. We are weak-minded. We are abominations waiting to happen. We are evil and cannot be trusted. We are the Maker cursed. And ..." Her voice came to a stuttering halt.

"And?" he asked.

She refused to look at him, her eyes carefully downcast instead. Her scarred hand, he noted, had disappeared amongst the folds of her too large trousers during her recitation. "And I deserve to be punished. I defied the Order, the Chantry, and the people of Thedas," she paused for a heartbeat, carefully considering her next words before continuing with, "by _choosing_ to live outside the Circle, by choosing to become an apostate."

There was much that Cullen did not know about Evelyn, but of this he was certain. She hadn't chosen to flee the Ostwick Circle, hadn't willingly decided to become an apostate. She had fled. Fled something more terrifying, more horrifying than the dangers of living outside the Circle, of being named apostate with all the risks that implied. He wanted to press her, wanted to demand she tell him the story of why she had run from the Circle, but he knew she wasn't ready. Maybe one day she would come to trust him, to turn to him in confidence. Maybe they would even grow to be friends -- but that day was not now. He couldn't ask about Ostwick, but there was another question nagging at him. He'd lost his belief though Templars were lauded in scripture. Evelyn clung to her faith in spite of being ostracized by its teachings.

"How, Evelyn? How can you still maintain your faith in the Chantry when one of its leaders has just maligned you and your kind?"

Again she was bewildered. "How can I not? There is no denying that I am cursed." She sadly pulled her scarred hand out from the folds of her clothes, holding it out between them. "I did something so unpardonable that I earned the Maker's wrath and I added to my crimes by becoming an apostate. But while the Chant says I have doomed myself, it also gives me hope. It says if I am devout enough, if I repent and pray and dedicate myself, if I live my life according to its teachings, there is a small chance I may receive absolution for my sins. If I prove myself a true believer, Andraste may one day take my hand and lead me into the Maker's presence. That hope is all that sustains me. Please don't take that from me," she pleaded.

It was the second time she had asked something of him, both times revolving around the only thing she truly could call her own, her faith in the Maker and His Bride. How could he disabuse her? How could he deny her even if it brought her suffering and pain? It also brought her hope, something she desperately needed. He was reluctant to agree, unwilling to expose her to any more of the Chantry's hatred, but he was also loath to refuse her. "No, of course I won't. But," he added, "I won't permit you to be abused as you were tonight. You will have to wait until we leave Amaranthine, but after that I will see to it that you may attend as many services as you wish."

They returned to the tavern and, after a quiet meal of nug stew and day-old bread, Cullen was seated at one of the long tables in the common room. In front of him were a few sheets of parchment, a full ink pot, and a freshly cut quill. To his side sat the dreaded messenger bags, now numbering three. He had a long night ahead of him with reports to writes and scores of missives to organize before he could read through them. Across from him sat Evelyn, who was sipping the last of her tea. He was about to tell her she could retire for the evening, but he realized that the mage had nothing at all to do, whether it be up in his quarters or sitting with him in the common area. She'd spent the day seated by a stone wall with naught to occupy her, while he had been busy organizing the recruitment site. Being idle all the time couldn't be good for her and likely only emphasized her belief that she was little more than useless baggage. He winced, remembering her look of anguish when she had overheard him describe her as such in Kirkwall. He glanced again at the overflowing bags of correspondence. It was a relatively unimportant task, busy work essentially, but it would save him from a great deal of frustration, and would give her something to occupy her time.

"Evelyn, if you don't have anything else to do, would you be willing to help me with something?" Cullen carefully worded the request so it was clear he was giving her a choice. He should have known better.

She froze, the dented mug hanging mid-air as she looked at him with growing panic. Her gaze flittered around the space as if she were searching for the safest exit from a carefully laid trap. He was about to rescind his request when she rose, resigned and worried. "What do you need me to do?"

He nearly told her to not be concerned, that he would deal with it himself, but he still felt, despite her trepidation, she needed some sort of task to help her gain some self-worth. "Could you organize these for me?" he asked with a nod towards the satchels.

Evelyn looked at them, her nervousness growing. "I ... I... I'm not really sure how to do that."

His voice as reassuring as it could be, he said, "Anything you do would be an improvement."

The mage nodded cautiously, taking one of the bags, and moved over to another table. Cullen watched her surreptitiously while pretending to study the blank parchment in front of him. Evelyn opened the bag and pulled out a handful of missives, chewing anxiously on her lower lip. After a quick read, she set the first paper on the table and began reading over the next. He watched her continue to nervously sort the various messages into different stacks. As she worked, she grew less apprehensive, becoming more decisive as she worked through the bag. Cullen finally his attention to writing his first account to Cassandra and Leliana. There wasn't much to report really: safely arriving in Amaranthine, meeting with Jim and the other scouts, getting measured for the new armor, initial meetings with a few likely suppliers ... and his alienation of yet another Chantry official. He could easily imagine what the Seeker's reaction would be when she read that bit of news.

Time passed quickly and Cullen began to make a list of the things he wanted to accomplish the next day when he noticed the mage was struggling to stifle a yawn. "Go to bed, Evelyn."

That she was exhausted was easy to discern. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, her mouth working hard to stop from yawning, her hands holding a stack of missives shaking with fatigue. "But I haven't finished," she replied anxiously.

Cullen chuckled. "With an army, there are three things you can count on -- beans, boots, and especially bureaucracy. There will be an unending amount of missives, reports, and records to read, organize, and update in the coming months. The most I can hope for is to keep just enough ahead so I don't drown in them." He reiterated, "Go to bed."

With a sleepy nod, she placed the unsorted parchments back into the satchel. She had just reached the stairs leading to his room when he remembered his manners. "Evelyn," he softly called, waiting until she turned towards him before continuing. "Thank you for your assistance tonight."

Her reaction surprised him. He thought she would be pleased. He did not expect she would grow more distressed. "I hope I didn't do too poor of a job."

Instead of the sigh that threatened to let loose, Cullen tried to reassure her. "I'm sure it is fine. I appreciate your help. Get some rest. It will be a busy day tomorrow."

She left in silence and Cullen walked over to look at the organized papers. He was impressed with her efforts. Everything was logically laid out and she had gone so far as to place the more important-seeming items on the top of each stack, then further organizing the piles into similar topics by reverse chronological order. He couldn't have done a better job if he had done it himself. Thanks to her assistance, it would take him little time to get caught up. He spent a short time reading, trying to distract him from the gnawing, aching need biting away at his resolve. Throughout the day, the desire for lyrium had been there, ever-present as he had gone about his duties. He'd been able to suppress it, to distract himself through his tasks, but now the want was near impossible to ignore. What he needed was a good night's sleep. In the morning, he would be refreshed, his determination to abstain strengthened. Finally, he gathered everything together and trudged up the stairs.

He wanted to curse as soon as he headed for his room. With everything that had been going on that day, he had forgotten one important task: to arrange a room for Evelyn. Now it was too late. The surly innkeeper had already sought his own bed and he knew better than to ask Sula to share her quarters with the mage, even if only for a single night. His friend would laugh in his face and tell him to use the opportunity to get to know Evelyn better. He could almost hear her mocking him: _nothing like sharing a bed to get over being shy and awkward around each other_. It was true Evelyn had stayed in his tent and shared his sleeping furs on the journey to Kirkwall, but that had been due to necessity. Well, tonight would simply have to be another necessity.

He found her already asleep, bundled up under the thick blanket. Cullen quietly removed his armor, carefully setting each piece out of the way before moving to stand by the side of the bed. Evelyn was on her side, facing towards him, her scarred hand tucked under her face. Her expression was relaxed, unguarded, and so terribly innocent. It stirred something deep inside him. What dreams would visit him tonight? Would he, once again, Order her to pleasure herself before he fucked her? Would he envision Evelyn on her knees before him, her full lips wrapped around his throbbing dick? During the day he had no trouble ignoring the dark desires. He kept them so deeply contained that he was unaware of his urges to own, to dominate, to possess his Claimed mage. But at night ... at night the feelings crept out, took control.

A few wisps of hair had escaped from the tight braid she wore. He reached out, tucking the strands behind her ear. His fingers wanted to flex, wanted to fist around the braid and hold her in place. He wanted to press his lips to hers in a domineering kiss, to plunge his tongue into her mouth, to entice her to duel her becoming harsh and quick. He wanted to curse. Wanted to flagellate himself for his base desires. Wanted to ... wanted to awaken her passion and fuck her for hours.

There was no way he could share the bed with Evelyn. That implied an intimacy they did not have and he could not trust himself if he slept beside her. With the urges he was already experiencing, he might find himself molesting her in his sleep as he had on the road to Kirkwall. That was a mortifying experience he didn't wish to repeat. Left with little choice, Cullen grabbed a pillow and the extra quilt that was draped across the bottom of the bed. It wouldn't be a comfortable night, but he had slept on worse. He spread the quilt on the limited floor space and settled upon it. There were two battles waging for control of his soul. One he knew he could resist. The other he was quickly losing his resolve to stand firm against. So he allowed the images to form in his mind, hoping it would distract from the insatiable want for lyrium. Evelyn naked, on her knees, her hands tightly gripping the headboard, her ass in the air.

To his surprise, his cock didn't stir. An affliction he had never experienced when he permitted himself to think of her late at night. Humiliation filled him, and with determined desperation, he allowed his mind free rein with his fantasies. Far better than tearing the room apart in search of the hated draughts of lyrium. Her legs looped over his shoulders, mouth opening in a deep moan as he filled her, her breasts bouncing as he fucked her, helpless to do anything but accept what he did to her. Would he tease and stroke her body for bells upon bells, before taking her slowly, making her beg for release? Would he simply fuck her hard and quick, forcing her to whine out his name with her completion? Despite the vivid imaginings, his dick remained soft, lying limp and useless.

In a way, it was a relief. If he still believed, he might have thought that the Maker was taking pity on him by giving him a reprieve from his unholy lust. But he didn't believe. The only answer that made sense was that his body was craving lyrium more than it longed for his Claimed. Finally, he drifted to sleep. His desires melded together in his dream, visions of holding Evelyn's wrists firmly together above her head, the other hand pouring vial after vial over her body, his tongue chasing the blue droplets across every inch of her naked skin.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first need to thank Hathamari for pointing out I had inadvertently changed the spelling of Declan's name to Declyn. It is back to being Declan and all the chapters where the other spelling appeared has been fixed.
> 
> Secondly, I cannot express the appreciation I have for bushviper. She is willing to read a ridiculous number of drafts until I can decide of what I want to do. She offers fantastic advice, is a great cheerleader when I need one, and is very talented at nagging when that is what spurs me into writing. She's also a damned great writer so if you haven't read her stories, do so. You won't regret it.
> 
> I also need to note that it is often said that writers should show, not tell. With this chapter, I've ignored that advice in many sections. This is a long, sprawling chapter where some information is needed for future events but not so pressing it needed full out explanations. So I opted to summarize sections so I could more fully focus on those scene I (and hopefully you will too) thought were more interesting.

Something was wrong.  His sword was already in his hand as he rolled off the floor.  The door and window were still secure, bolted tight against intruders.  Nothing seemed out of place.  Yet, the sense that something was not as it should be remained.  He scanned the room again, finding everything as it should be.  Moving over to the door, he placed an ear against the rough surface, but could hear nothing that explained the uneasy feeling that had pulled him from his deep sleep.

Cullen turned to look at the mage, finally realizing what had disturbed him.  Standing near the far corner, Evelyn was distressed, of that he was certain.  Ashen face, hands twisting together, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes.  He approached her, his free hand reaching out in concern.  Blossoms of color burst on her cheeks as she edged back from his touch.

His motions stilled, not wanting to cause the mage any more anxiety.  “Evelyn?”

“I’m sorry,” was all she could manage to say.

He fought the impulse to gnash his teeth.  Of course, she was sorry.  She was always sorry about something.  He would love to go at least one day, even a single bell would satisfy him at this point, without her apologizing for anything and everything, including her very existence.  Especially for her very existence.  “Yes, I know.  Tell me why.”

She shook her head, turning her gaze from him to the floor.  “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

The tears that had been threatening to fall began cascading over her reddened cheeks.  Chewing worriedly on her lower lip, she said, “It won’t happen again.”

He knew he should be patient.  He knew he should try to be tolerant and understanding.  But the incredibly short fuse on his temper was nearly burned out and the sun hadn’t even risen.  The last thing he needed in the early hours of the morn was to have to go round and round trying to figure out the mage’s bizarre thoughts.  “Evelyn!”  His voice hardened into an Order.  “Tell me what you think you did wrong.”

“I slept on the bed,” she blurted.  The tears of humiliation flowing down her face grew heavier with her confession.

And with that, his annoyance dissipated.  Cullen was baffled, and almost amused, that such an inconsequential thing would have her so distraught.  “ _That_ is why you are upset?”

Evelyn gave a guilty nod as she said, “You gave me my own room in Kirkwall and I thought it was the same here.  I didn’t know this was your room.  I would never have presumed to sleep in the bed had I known.”

“I wanted you to have the bed.”

Instead of being comforted, or even appreciative, Evelyn grew more mortified, the bloom of color on her cheeks deepening, her hands continuing to twist together anxiously.  “But you are … _you_ and I’m but a Claimed.  I’m not worthy of such a privilege.  It is my place to sleep on the floor.”

“Enough!  He ran an exasperated hand through his sleep-mussed hair.  “I forgot to arrange a room for you yesterday and it was too late by the time I remembered.  It’s just for one night.  I’ll speak to the innkeeper later and you’ll have your own room with your own bed tonight.  Now, can we please put this nonsense behind us?”  He knew he was being overly harsh, but instead of appreciating his gentlemanly gesture, Evelyn was upset by it.  Cullen wondered if there would ever be a time when he wasn’t left hopelessly baffled by a conversation with the mage.  He snatched up the quilt from the floor, flinging it back on the bed.  Gathering his armor so he could don it out in the hallway, he told her, “Join me in the common room once you are ready,” before leaving her to her own devices.

The rest of the day had gone about as well as it had started.  It turned out Jim was as much of an incompetent dolt as had been Cullen’s first impression.  Supplies had been arranged for, but not the ones most critically needed.  No exercise weapons.  No horses for the officers.  Only perishable foods.  Did his idiot assistant think the recruits would know how not to skewer each other with sharpened weapons while training?  So, Cullen had been left with no recourse but to devote a large portion of his morning inquiring with merchants about anything that might be used as training weapons.  Declan, who had been raised on a horse farm before joining the Order, had volunteered to search out any serviceable steeds that might be found in Amaranthine, though he doubted he’d be able to find anything other than nags for sale.  That had left Sula in charge of the commissary, a task she did not at all relish … and made she’d certain that Cullen was well aware of her displeasure.

“Not one word from you if you aren’t happy with what I secure,” she had testily spouted before stalking off.  She’d get her revenge on him somehow, most likely by purchasing a ridiculous amount of Qunari spices that would burn its way through his innards.  Just as long as she didn’t buy … No, Sula could be cruel, but certainly not _that_ cruel.

At least the day hadn’t ended up being just one long series of aggravations.  He had managed to solve several issues all with one impulsive decision.  Evelyn was now officially serving as his secretary, though the young woman was not as comfortable with the idea as he.  In typical fashion, she had discounted her abilities, expressing concern that she didn’t know what to do, that his work was too important, and that she would just make a mess of things.  Cullen had stood firm.  He knew she was more than competent, proven already by her work organizing all the missives and reports.  He was certain the job would give her some much needed confidence and something to occupy her time.  Plus, it had the benefit of saving him from massive amounts of headaches trying to deal with all the issues that kept popping up _and_ all the paperwork as well.

Shortly after the nooning break, the first brave soul had finally stepped forward to inquire about joining the army.  More had followed soon after.  The majority weren’t truly interested – approaching on a dare, wishing to impress a sweetheart, or having nothing better to do than waste the recruiters’ time.  But there had been a few sincerely interested.  Not as many as he would have liked but progress was progress even if it was agonizingly slow.  The recruits signing up in Amaranthine would be near the end of their contracts by the time they reached Haven.  It couldn’t be helped.  He had to begin building the Divine’s army somewhere and his start was a near year’s journey from his destination.

He had also found himself fielding queries from traveling merchants, carters, people who needed to travel to one of the villages that would be visited on the recruitment tour, a few who wished to make the pilgrimage all the way to Haven so they could see where the ashes of Andraste had once been interred, and an alarming number of camp followers (most of whom tried to proposition him).  All of them had wanted not to join the army, but to travel with it.  On the road, in the middle of nowhere, security was found in numbers and the safest place would be traveling in the middle of an armed force.  All offered services in kind for the protection:  helping to cook meals, foraging for food, assisting with the camp set up and break down, and helping to haul some of the army’s equipment.  The camp followers were, of course, offering a different sort of service.  Cullen told each, excepting the camp followers, that he would give each request careful consideration.

The day was finally coming to an end.  Cullen gave instructions for the next day to Jim and the other scouts before collecting Evelyn.  She seemed distracted as they walked back to the inn.  Her preoccupation continued during their simple supper of fish stew.  Even after the meal, while he reviewed the meticulous notes and lists she had made during the day, Evelyn stared into her mug of tea with unfocused eyes.  He caught her from time to time peeking over at him, her mouth opening as if to speak, but she would then shake her head and return to looking intently at the cooling brown drink.  Cullen didn’t want to force her to speak before she was ready, so he remained silent, focusing his attention on getting caught up on the papers in front of him.

After not quite a bell had passed, he set aside the first stack.  It was then she finally decided to speak.  Her voice was soft, hesitant.  Her manner unobtrusive.  “May I …”  She stopped, carefully studying him at the edge of her downcast gaze.

He lifted his head and with an encouraging nod, said, “Yes?”

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”  He set aside the parchments, giving her his full attention.

For a heartbeat, her gaze settled on the wide window and the view of the darkened sky seemed to comfort her.  She took a deep breath, fiddling with the mug in her hand.  “I couldn’t help but notice … that is … the reports mention …”  She stopped suddenly, chewing anxiously on her lower lip but another glance at the sky seen through the large window somehow emboldened her.  “Is it true you are going to Haven?  And that you are in charge of Most Holy’s army?”

He had expected she would ask about her new duties or request that he permit her to continue attending services at the Chantry despite the Grand Cleric’s attack on her.  Her question stirred anger and disgust within him for her query added to the long list of abuses he had heaped on the Claimed mage.  Cullen realized in that moment he had never bothered to tell her why she was being dragged across the width of Ferelden, about the purpose of his work, or the reasonings of why he was raising an army.

He ordered fresh mugs of tea for the both of them and began explaining about the Conclave, about what he hoped to achieve with the army he was building, about how she would be able to help him meet those goals.  She grew puzzled when he spoke of the mounting conflicts between Templars and mages.  It was obvious she knew nothing about recent events, so he told her of Anders’ act of terrorism, of mages rising up in Circles across Thedas, of the annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle, of Templars abandoning their posts, choosing to part from Chantry and duty.

She listened attentively, her expression its customary neutral mask, but Cullen was becoming attuned to it.  He could now see past it, catch the minute micro-expressions that gave him hints of what she might be thinking.  She was shocked by his revelations, in disbelief by some of what she heard.  She didn’t interrupt during his recitation, listening patiently until he finished.  He expected she would want him to expand or clarify certain points.  She did have questions, but they were not the ones he was anticipating.

“And Divine Justinia will be at the Conclave?”  At his nod, her carefully maintained mask fell completely away.  Her eyes glittered with eagerness, cheeks flushing with excitement.  There were layers of keenness in her quiet voice when she spoke again.  “Will I get to meet her?”

For a heartbeat, Cullen felt as if there was an oddness to the request, but he shook it off.  Few ever got to see the Divine firsthand.  For someone as devout as Evelyn, to be presented with the prospect of meeting, speaking with the head of the Chantry was something few even permitted themselves to dream might happen.  “Most Holy’s available time will be limited, but I will try to arrange an audience for you.”  It was the least he could do.  Evelyn had been brutalized, enslaved.  Was being forced to trek across Thedas to attend a Conclave that, no matter the outcome, would have no positive outcome for the mage.  She was destined to wear the Binding band for the rest of her life, to be chained to him for as long as they both breathed.  He would see to it that the mage had a meeting with Most Holy, that Evelyn received a blessing from Justinia.  The conversation shifted to her new duties and he showed her what would be required to keep the records in order.  As he suspected, once her nervousness lessened, she easily dealt with the tasks, instinctively knowing what was necessary.

Leaving Evelyn to her work, Cullen approached the innkeeper about arranging a room for her, and just like that, the pleasant evening disappeared.  He returned to the common room, reluctant to approach Evelyn, but he could put it off no longer.  He had made a promise that morning, a promise he was unable to keep.  The prejudice against mages ran deep in Amaranthine, so deep it was affecting his sleeping arrangements again.  The innkeeper had been adamant that the only reason Evelyn had been permitted to set foot in the inn was that she was Claimed.  Under no circumstance would he allow her continued presence without being under the constant control of her Templar.  Separate rooms with separate beds were out of the question.

He cleared his throat, his mouth now constantly parched from the lack of lyrium, drawing the mage’s attention from her work.  As soon as he made his presence known, the mage sensed the change in his mood.  Evelyn rose, nervously chewing on her bottom lip, and he saw only a flash of her scarred hand before it disappeared into the folds of her pants.  She looked up at him, her eyes shadowed and worried.

“I wasn’t able to secure another room.”  Cullen had already decided he wouldn’t tell her the reason.  “We’ll need to continue to share quarters for now.”  If he thought Evelyn would express displeasure or concern, he was to be disappointed.  She simply nodded and went back to her work.  He stared at her in puzzlement for a heartbeat before beginning his task of updating reports to Cassandra and Leliana.  It took longer than it should.  His mind was a muddled mess, he had to search for the words he needed, and had to focus on holding the quill steady as he scratched out the information on the parchment.

“I’m finished, unless you have other tasks for me,” Evelyn’s voice cautiously interrupted.

He looked up to find she had placed multiple stacks in front of him, with not a single page out of alignment.  He gave her a tight smile, pleased that the missives were finally organized, yet not so pleased he had so much to read through.  “No.  There’s nothing else tonight.  You go to bed.  I’ll join you shortly.”

She left without comment and he sat quietly, counting off the heartbeats until he felt he had given her enough privacy.  He gathered all the missives together, careful not to disturb her meticulous organization as he dumped them into one of the many satchels before tiredly trudging up the stairs.  Cullen wanted to sigh in exasperation when he steeped into his room.  Evelyn had taken it upon herself to spread a quilt on the floor, not for his use, but for her own.  The mage was asleep, her tight braid looping over her shoulder and pooling in the curve of her elbow.  He shook his head sadly.  What had led her to think she was to take his place on the floor?  He had been clear enough that morning during their confused conversation, and though he had not specifically told her she was to take the bed, she should have known.

Cullen knelt, slipping one hand under her legs and the other supporting her shoulders.  For a person so hyper-vigilant of her surroundings during her waking hours, the mage did not stir as he lifted and transferred her to the warm comforts of the bed.  She continued to sleep like the dead, without a murmur or fluttering of her eyelids.  He tucked the blanket around her before forcing himself to leave her side.  The dark urge to join her in the bed returned.  He wanted to wake the mage and her passions, but he would remain strong.  He settled on the floor, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape.  His mind wandered, painting pictures of Evelyn in his thoughts.  And as had occurred the previous night, nothing happened.  His soul demanded satisfaction, insisted on picturing the mage naked and helpless before him, yet his body could not respond.  His dick remained limp, useless.  Even if he wanted to, which he shamefully admitted he did, there was no way to ease the mental urges with a physical release.  He was worried, felt lessened as a man, yet there was also relief.  Even if his resolve to not touch the Claimed mage wavered, he wouldn’t physically be able to do any of the multitudes of acts that played in his dreams.  Eventually, exhaustion overcame his concerns, carrying him into the Fade.

The next morning started much as the previous had.  Cullen was pulled from a deep sleep because of a strong sense of wrongness.  And similarly, it was because Evelyn was upset he had spent the night on the floor.  After he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision, he was first struck by her frown of disapproval.  It was so rare for the mage to show any sort of emotion other than fear or submissiveness that he thought he was still dreaming.

But he wasn’t dreaming, and Evelyn was not looking at him with any sense of fright.  She scooped up the quilt and began folding it with careful precision, each motion delivered with a snap of … annoyance?  He wasn’t really certain.  There was a touch of censure when she spoke.  “You should have left me where I was.  It is improper for a Templar to sleep on the floor while his Claimed is given the bed.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m no longer a Templar,” he snarled.  “You’ll sleep where I tell you and for the time being it’s on that bloody bed.”  He should be happy that Evelyn was showing more of herself than the timid, terrified young woman that he was all too used to seeing.  But, Maker’s breath, he was tired, sore, hungry, cranky, and so in need of lyrium he would gladly slaughter an entire village for a single drop of the blue fluid.  To have her once again reject his chivalrous gesture was simply the final straw.  And she hadn’t simply rejected it.  She’d thrown it back in his face as something unwanted and unacceptable.  He gathered up his things, threw her an annoyed scowl, and proceeded to the hallway to don his armor.

His anger had burned off, replaced by contrition when she joined him to break their fast.  He tried to engage her in conversation, but she responded with hesitantly spoken one-word answers – when he could get her to speak at all.  Evelyn had retreated back into her security of extreme docility, all because he had lost his temper.  He wondered if he would ever be able to regain her trust enough that she would drop her guarded façade.

They left the inn, heading to the recruitment site in a heavy silence.  Evelyn quickly parted from him to see to her own tasks at her make-shift desk.  Cullen found Declan and Sula already waiting to give their reports.  Still grousing about being placed in charge of food procurement, Sula mentioned in passing that beans, the staple of an army’s belly, were in short supply.  Cullen didn’t like the glint in her eyes when she said she was considering alternatives.  Declan lamented about the poor horse stock available but was still determined to continue searching for passable mounts.

The day turned out to be mostly a repetition of the previous day.  Eager candidates were signed up.  More inquires about traveling with the army were fielded.  He inspected the supplies that had already been stockpiled and signed off on equipment being delivered.  He reviewed the recruits being taken through their paces by Declan.  He sent off his completed reports to Cassandra and Leliana and continued to read through the backlog of missives.  And he added another responsibility to Evelyn’s tasks.

It was approaching the nooning, Cullen was seated at his improvised desk, vision blurry, temples throbbing, pain coursing through his body, throat parched, his hands trembling so intensely he couldn’t even hold on to a quill.  It was at this moment, of course, that Jim appeared at his side.  He held a small parcel in his hands and his voice was nauseatingly chipper as he announced, “Delivery for you, Commander.”

Cullen knew what it held, knew that it housed the blue fluid that he so craved yet so detested.  He wanted nothing more than to rip open the package and to guzzle down the contents.  He was reaching for it before he realized what he was doing.  He snatched back his hands, knowing he couldn’t touch it, couldn’t have it anywhere near him.  It was too tempting, too dangerous.  He did the only thing he could think of in that moment.  He called for Evelyn.

He could see the mage’s head turn to him in alarm at his desperate tone, but she continued to stand at her table, staring at him uncertainly.  His temper exploded.  “Get over here right now!”

She scrambled at his Order, knocking over stacks of parchments in her rush to reach his side.

“Give her the parcel,” Cullen told Jim.  “And in future, bring all deliveries to her.”

The mage looked perplexed but accepted the small package without comment, clasping it carefully to her bosom.

“From now on, you will oversee the lyrium, Evelyn.  You will accept all shipments, keep records of the inventory, and see to its distribution.  Do you understand?”

She nodded but otherwise did not say anything.

“Go on,” he gently said, feeling terrible for alarming her as he had.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, her eyes searching his face before dropping down to look at his shaking hands.  It was his turn to feel shame, hastily hiding the most visible evidence of his withdrawal behind his back.  Attempting to turn her attention away from his condition, he said, “I’m sorry I disrupted your work.  Do you need any help getting it back in order?”

She shook her head, glancing worriedly one final time at his flushed face before returning to her workspace.

Cullen managed to get through the rest of his duties, despite the near debilitating cravings (and the resulting pain) for lyrium.  He had even managed to stop himself from rushing over to Evelyn, Ordering her to hand over the draughts.  At long last, it was nearing the end of the day, with only a few bells left until sunset.  He was more than ready to retreat to the quiet of the inn’s common room, with perhaps a mug of the mage’s curative tea to ease his aches and pains.  Instead, he was impatiently waiting for Evelyn to finish checking the inventory of the most recently delivered crates.  Had it been any other consignment, he would gladly have left it to either Sula or Declan, or even his boneheaded assistant, to handle.  No, because it involved medicinals, it was best that Evelyn sign off on the inventory herself.  The counting of the bundles of elfroot and other healing herbs shouldn’t take her too long.  Then they could finally escape from the noisy marketplace which would, hopefully, ease Cullen’s pounding headache.

“I wasn’t certain how much you would require,” he told her.  “The merchant assures me he has ample supplies should it not be enough.  And the prices are more than reasonable.  I’d rather you have too much rather than not enough, so don’t hesitate to make a request if more should be purchased.”

Evelyn picked up one of the bundles of dried elfroot, and though it was subtle, her lips tightened disapprovingly.

“Is there a problem?”

She chewed nervously on her lower lip before answering.  “The plants were picked too early.  One might be able to use it to make weak salves for minor skin abrasions or slight burns, but it’s useless for anything more potent.”  She continued to dig through the crate, her fingers rubbing a leaf here, a stalk there.  Her lips dipped down into a frown.  It hadn’t lasted for even a heartbeat, but it was enough.

“What else is wrong?”

She looked up at him nervously, scooting away just far enough to be out of easy striking range.  Cullen didn’t think she was aware of her actions, but it concerned him that she felt the need.  But of course, she would.  Hadn’t he nearly struck her on the road to Kirkwall, over elfroot no less?  She remained silent, her gaze moving from him (or more specifically his hands) to the crates of healing herbs.

“Evelyn, I don’t know the difference between a root or a stem.  To me, elfroot is just elfroot.  You aren’t here simply because …”  He stopped suddenly.  He couldn’t bring himself to say it was because she had been cruelly enslaved and had no choice.  “Because you have no where else to go.  You are a healer.  I need your expertise.  Your role is one of the most important for the army.  Your opinions are important.  Your knowledge is important.  _You_ are important.  If there is a problem with something, I want you to…  No, not want.  I _need_ you to tell me.  Do you understand?”

She seemed stunned as if she couldn’t believe what he had just said.  Finally, she took one of the bunched elfroot and held it out to him.  “See this?”  She pointed to a powdery whitish spot where a leaf met with the stalk.  “The elfroot has been improperly dried.  Mold is growing on all of these.  It would be imprudent to use them to make even salves.  The mold could be nothing, but it could also be something dangerous that would cause more harm than good.  It would be best to not take the risk.”

Cullen fought off the desire to sigh.  Yet another task that needed to be dealt with before they could depart the wretched city that was Amaranthine.  Medicinals was one area he would not skimp on.  If these did not meet Evelyn’s standard, they would simply have to find some that did.  He rubbed at his neck, looking at the descending sun.  “Then tomorrow, I will have these returned to the merchant while you and I will search out ones that meet your approval.  But for now, let’s return to the inn and enjoy a hot meal.”

They had a simple meal of baked fish with roasted root vegetables.  At least Evelyn did.  Cullen firmly refused the vegetables, more than half of the portion being turnips, which he detested with all his being.  She sat quietly in front of the fire pit, sipping on a mug of tea while he continued to toil away at the paperwork.  It concerned him that she had nothing to occupy her attention.  Evelyn had managed to complete all her work by the early afternoon, and as far as he could tell, she didn’t have a book to read or even a hobby to work on.  Did she knit?  Maybe he could get her some yarn and needles to help fill her time.  Still, she seemed satisfied to sit quietly with her tea in front of the warm fire.

Time passed quickly as Cullen signed off on some reports and added notations to others.  He was about to ask Evelyn to make him another mug of tea – there was something magical about her blends, the pains and craving seemed more manageable after a few sips – when he noticed she was beginning to nod off.  “There’s no need to stay down here when you are tired,” he called softly.  “Go to bed.”

She gave a brief nod as she rose to collect their mugs.  After a brief disappearance into the kitchen, she returned, hovering briefly beside him.  “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can help with?”

“No, but thank you.  This,” he said with a wave towards the stacks of parchment, “requires my personal attention.  But your exceptional work organizing and summarizing everything has made it a much easier task.”  He had hoped she would be pleased with his compliment, or at least get a bump to her confidence.  Instead Evelyn appeared confused, and then seemed to withdraw into herself as his words sunk in.

He resisted the urge to sigh, an all too common occurrence when it came to interactions with the young mage.  “Go to bed,” he repeated.  “You’ve had a long day.”  Evelyn was just heading to the stairs when he added, “And I do mean bed.  I’d best not find you sleeping on the floor.”

Evelyn had turned back towards him when he began speaking.  She opened her mouth, before clamping it shut without uttering a word.  Finally, with an unhappy nod, she turned and climbed the stairs that led to his room.

Cullen shook his head sadly before returning his attention to the work laid out before him.  He lost track of the time until the chiming rang out, marking the passage of another bell.  He was weary, sore, and in desperate need of a good night’s rest.  Not that he could expect that with another night spent on the floor.  Gathering up the papers, he stuffed them all into a satchel, before trudging up the stairs and down the hallway to his room.

Evelyn had followed his directive, and was not sleeping on the floor.  She wasn’t sleeping at all, in fact.  He found her sitting at the end of the bed, her hair back into its nightly tight braid, and the quilt that had been used the past two nights to cushion the floorboards folded in her lap.

He just wanted some rest.  He certainly did not want to go round and round yet again about the sleeping arrangements.  “The issue is not open for discussion, Evelyn.  I will not permit you to take the floor.”

Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, and so pitiful it tore at his heart.  “I know.”  Her head hung down sadly while she plucked anxiously at the quilt.  “But it isn’t right that you give up your bed for me.”

“This has nothing to do with right or wrong.  This is about courtesy.”  He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.  “I don’t want to argue about this anymore.  For now, we must share the accommodations, so you will sleep in the bed, and I will sleep on the floor.  That’s just how it must be.”

Her eyes darted to the small window with its view of the star-filled sky, something she did whenever she was trying to build her courage.  Evelyn then looked down at her scarred hand, flexing it slightly before cautiously raising her gaze to meet his.  “There is another solution.  A compromise if you agree.”

“And what would that be?”

There was much mumbling, her face reddening daintily, before she eventually blurted out, “We could share the bed.”

Of every possibility of what she might propose, this was the last thing he expected.  The idea of it made him uncomfortable, about as uncomfortable as it seemed to make her.  Cullen shook his head as walked over to her, holding his hand out for the quilt.  “That isn’t necessary.”

There was a flash in her eyes as she blatantly ignored his outstretched hand.  “You speak of acts of courtesy, but you won’t permit me to make an offer of courtesy to you.  Why should you sleep on the floor when there is ample room for both of us in the bed?”

Still, he hesitated.  Though there was truth to what she said, there were many valid reasons he should refuse.  Not the least of which was his unholy desires to dominate her as he possessed her body.  He could barely trust himself when he slept on the floor just a few mere feet from her.  How was he to trust himself if he was lying in the bed next to her?  “It’s complicated.”

Evelyn wilted, her shoulders hunching, her head hanging despondently.  Her gaze turned to her scarred hand, tears beginning to shimmer at the corners of her dark brown eyes.  “No, it isn’t.  You prefer to sleep on the floor rather than share a bed with someone as abhorrent as me.”

Her words stopped him cold.  “You aren’t abhorrent.  Far from it.”  He rubbed at the back of his neck before sitting on the bed beside her.  “You aren’t abhorrent, Evelyn,” he repeated.  “I’ve been … I’ve been trying to make you feel comfortable.  To give you some space to yourself.”

She sniffled, tears still shimmering in her eyes.  “But it doesn’t make me comfortable.  It’s upsetting.”

“I don’t want you upset.”

The tears started flowing over her pale skin.  “Then why do you insist on sleeping on the floor?  There is a simple solution, yet you still refuse.  I don’t understand.”

No, she wouldn’t, innocent as she was.  She had no inkling as to the battles he went through on a nightly basis.  How he had to fight against desire and want, nor of the many ways he had fantasized of taking her, owning her, using her.  He lifted her face, gently wiping away her tears.  His resolve broke when he saw her face so full of pain and dejection.  “Are you certain of this?  I don’t want to encroach on your space.”

Sensing his changed attitude, she smiled softly, the misery lifting away from her eyes.  “Yes, I’m certain.”

With a sigh, he stood, holding out a hand for the quilt she held in her lap.  While Evelyn crawled into the bed, Cullen set aside the quilt and began to remove his armor.  With trepidation, he joined her.  And though he didn’t believe, he sent out a silent prayer to the Maker.  _Please let me be impotent tonight._   The previous two nights, it had been distressing.  Tonight, it would be a blessing.  And whether it was the Maker, or the universe, or just his damned body reacting to the lyrium withdrawal, his prayer was answered.

Their remaining days in Amaranthine sped by.  More recruits signed contracts.  Declan secured the needed horses, such as they were.  Medicinals meeting Evelyn’s lofty standards were purchased.  Supplies and equipment began arriving in staggering amounts.  But finally, the last afternoon he would be spending in the despicable city had arrived.

The encampment was bustling with chaotic activity.  Orders and counter-orders filled the air.  Rowdy recruits were lined up to get the just delivered leather armor and backpacks.  No doubt that by tomorrow eve, there would be multitudes of complaints about chafing, particularly around sensitive bits.  Heaps of crates and food stacks were scattered around with no consideration given to proper organization.  There was feed for the horses and druffalo.  Large casks of beer and wine.  Other casks, empty ones for the hauling of water.  Cakes of tea.  Blocks of salt.  Pens full of ravens.  Tents.  Cooking pots and pans.  Sleeping furs.  Flints and lanterns.  The wagons and carts were being moved into position so as to not slow down their departure in the morning.

Evelyn was overseeing the loading of a cart housing the medicinals, directing where everything was placed so she could access them quickly should the need arise.  Likewise, Sula was supervising all the food stocks, carefully checking things off her master list as items were loaded onto the various wagons. 

On the outskirts of the camp, civilians, with far more discipline than the raw recruits, set about with their own preparations.  Over the course of several day, he and Sula had discussed and debated the benefits of granting some of the requests to travel alongside the army.  In the end, he agreed out of necessity.  They would need assistance hauling all the extra armor and weaponry for any recruits that would be joining in the smaller towns and hamlets where there would be no armor smiths.

Cullen knew that by sunset, all would be in order, but the current bedlam was setting his teeth on edge.  He was close to yelling at the next witless fool who rushed past him - of which there were too many easy targets.  Instead, he wandered over to where Sula was directing the loading of the food wagons.

She was reading over her multiple lists.  “I want all the pickled nug meat, druffalo jerky, cheese wheels, and salted fish on that wagon.  The oats, flour, Qunari spices and animal feed will go on that one.”

“Sula.”

“Just a moment,” she said without looking up.  “Now then,” she pointed to an enormous pile of large sacks. “I want all the turnips on those two wagons.  If there’s not enough room, put the overage in with the oats.”

He knew she had been upset about being the commissary officer, but he never thought she was _this_ livid.  Was there even a single turnip left in the entire city?  “Why did you have to get so much turnips?”

Her eyes flashing, she turned on him.  “I told you not one word of complaint, Cullen.  And I meant it.  I don’t want to hear any moaning from you.”

“But turnips?  Couldn’t you have gotten some rutabagas or potatoes or yams or even beets?’

She smirked, knowing how much he detested turnips.  “I could have, but I didn’t.”

The wind shifted, and he reflexively crinkled his nose at the horrid odor.  Turnips smelled and tasted as appetizing as a pile of moldy unwashed socks.  He was _not_ going to be enjoying meal breaks for the near future.

Sula waved the parchments in her hand meaningfully.  “Did you simply come over here to annoy me and disrupt my work or do you want something?”

“Ah, yes.  Would you keep an eye on Evelyn for me and bring her back to the inn when the work here is complete, so I can go to the main marketplace for a few last-minute purchases?”

His second-in-command looked over to where the young mage was reorganizing the healing herbs.  “Why don’t you bring her with you?  You two seem to be getting along better these past few days.”

It was true, since he had accepted her compromise on the sleeping arrangements, that Evelyn had seemed more at ease around him.  He’d even go so far as to say that she had reached some level of contentment with her duties, gaining some confidence in herself and in her work.  “With anti-mage sentiment running so high, it would be safer for her to stay here with you.  Plus,” he said as he watched her moving around the small crates and leather pouches, a serious but happy expression on her face, “she looks like she’s enjoying herself.  I wouldn’t want to pull her away from what she’s doing.”

Sula tilted her head.  “If you say so.  She’s tough to read.  I can never tell what she’s thinking or feeling.  Anyway, yes, I will keep an eye on her if, in return, you pick up something while you’re at the marketplace.”

Cullen tore his gaze from Evelyn, puzzled that Sula couldn’t see the mage’s evident enjoyment as she arranged and rearranged the contents of the cart.  “What do you need me to get for you?”

“Oh, not for me,” she said with twinkling eyes.  “ _Evelyn_ asked me for a darning kit.  Apparently one of your socks has a hole in it, and she is fretting about repairing it.”

He huffed.  “For crying out … I can darn my own damned socks.”

Sula struggled to keep a straight face.  “Of course, you can.  But do be a dear, and buy her a kit anyway.  She was quite disappointed when I told her we didn’t have one.”

“I will,” he grumped.  “So she can repair her own socks.”

The marketplace was teeming.  Cullen had to weave in and out of the crowds in search of the items he required.  The first stop was for a new shaving kit.  His current blade was so brittle, he couldn’t sharpen it anymore in fear it would snap.  Not that he would be using it anytime soon.  His hands shook too much with the withdrawals to trust a putting a sharpened edge to his throat.  He also picked up a few cakes of soap, something he was sure Evelyn would appreciate.  Next, he purchased the darning kit Evelyn wanted, though he would make it clear to her that it was to be used to repair her own items, not his.  He wandered past a stall with used clothing.  There was nothing that would fit her slight frame any better than the ungainly tunic and pants she currently had, but the merchant did have a selection of neck scarves.

Evelyn’s status as a mage, and a Claimed one at that, was too easily discerned by the Binding band on her neck.  Something was needed to give her a layer of protection from the hatred spewed her way, a way to cover it up without being overly obvious about it.  He fingered one scarf in particular.  It was of a deep green sheer material, with fine gold threading creating images of flying birds.  It was strictly decorative, probably worn by a noblewoman a single time before being discarded.  Delicate, exquisite, and the coloring would compliment Evelyn’s complexion.  He set it aside with regret.  The purpose was to hide the band, not to draw attention to her neck.  Cullen picked up a more suitable scarf of thick wool.  It was a bland grey but thick and would not look out of place on a simple traveler, as he hoped people would assume Evelyn to be.  He paid for it, and then moved on to wandering the market in search of some trifle for the young mage.

Though she had a great many duties, she would still have time for herself on the long journey to Haven.  She needed something to fill the bells when she had naught else to do.  Knitting he had considered but had forgotten to see if she enjoyed it.  Honestly, he didn’t know much about her, knew nothing of any hobbies she might have, or of those things that brought her joy.  Stopping suddenly, Cullen realized there was one thing he did know that gave her delight.  In Kirkwall, when she had first seen the great library, she had been enthralled, forgetting his presence as she took delight in the shelves upon shelves of books and tomes.

Picking up his pace, Cullen searched for a book stall, finding one nearly hidden away by the exit.  There was a large selection he was pleased to note.  Even more pleasing there was an entire section of books designed just for travelers.  Small and light weight.  They could easily be slipped into a pack without taking up much space.  But what would she prefer?  Certainly, no tomes about magic given that she was grateful his Orders had denied her access to her mana.  Not that a merchant in Amaranthine would risk selling a book about spells and magic.

She liked herbology but the offerings on the subject were rudimentary at best.  Would she enjoy an insipid romance novel with knights sweeping young maids off their feet?  Did she prefer history?  Mysteries?  Would a history book be more to her liking?  And then he had his answer.  Stacked to the back, was the Chant of Light.  Each book a different canticle.  Perfect for travelers who could not carry the Chant in its entirety.  But which one?  From which did she find the most hope, from which did she quote when faced with sadness or the need for guidance?

His callused fingers ran across the spines, stopping when he reached the Canticle of Transfigurations.  It had been his favorite, sustaining him through the many trials throughout his life.  If he were to be honest, Transfigurations had probably been the cornerstone of his faith – when he still believed.  It spoke of hope and redemption.  Of Andraste’s unending love.  Offered guidance and salvation.  What better choice could he make for the mage who believed herself cursed and who yearned to be cleansed in the Maker’s fire?

As soon as he walked into the inn’s common room, Sula retreated to her room, throwing out a comment about having to see enough of his ugly mug in the coming days.  Evelyn, on the other hand, had disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a hot mug of her soothing tea for him.  He took it, sipping it gingerly until it cooled down.  Soon the headache that had been so persistent throughout the day that he no longer even noticed it, began to ease and with that, his muscles followed suit.

He gave her the darning kit first, with express instructions that it was for her personal use.  Her reception to the scarf was less than delighted.  She frowned as he tied it around her neck, and explained why he wanted her to wear it.  She tugged at it, loosening the scarf.  He could only presume it would take a few days for her to get accustomed to the scratchy material.

The book, however, washed away her frown.  She looked at it with intense pleasure, and held it tightly to her bosom once he handed it over.  He awkwardly rubbed at his neck, looking off at the ceiling, as he clumsily told her it was his favorite canticle and that he hoped she enjoyed it as much as he did.  She gave him a quizzical look, murmuring something about not knowing there was so much more to the Chant.  Before he could inquire, she requested permission to retire.

With a laugh, he granted it, reminding her not to stay up too late for they had an early start.  He doubted she even heard him as she rushed up the stairs.  Later, when he was finally able to seek his bed, he found Evelyn asleep, her book open on her lap.  He gently took it, laying it near her pack before joining her in the bed.  He plumped up his pillow, interlocked his fingers behind his head, stared up at the ceiling, and gave thanks that in just a few bells, he would finally be able to leave Amaranthine.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my undying appreciation to bushviper -- who discovered the perfect "stick and carrot' to get me writing in earnest. Can't say more than that for now, but she's a genius.

A few bells later, Evelyn certainly proved that she was not a morning person.  Groggy and grumpy, she incoherently grumbled out what Cullen believed to be a long litany of peevish curses as he shook her awake, biting back his laughter all the while.  He did chuckle when she finished rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looked up at him uncertainly, contritely apologizing for whatever she had been calling him.

With false dawn quickly approaching, they broke their fast on chunks of bread as they rushed to the encampment.  Sula was already there, attempting to get the recruits lined up in proper formation.  Declan was doing the same with the much more numerous, and significantly more disciplined, civilians.  There was a buzz of anticipation in the air, which Cullen shared.  The recruitment and gathering of supplies had taken days longer than planned, so he was keen to try to get back on schedule.  Not to mention he was more than ready to be done with Amaranthine, with its grotesque fawning over Templars and extreme prejudice towards mages.

He had given long thought on how they would proceed.  The most important task for any army was the ability to travel quickly and efficiently.  Soldiers knowing how to correctly wield a sword and shield was essential of course, as was strategy on how to best utilize the army once they were at the field of battle, but those were useless if the army couldn’t get to where they were needed, when they were required.  There was no question that the civilians, with their numerous wagons drawn by slow, lumbering druffalos, would not be able to match the speed of the marching soldiers.  He had agreed to provide protection for the noncombatants, but his ultimate obligation was to see to his soldiers’ proper training.

The plan that Cullen had devised was that he and Sula would head out with the recruits, instructing them along the way on how to march correctly.  When they were close to pulling too far ahead of the civilians, the army would stop to work on learning to turn in unison on command.  Eventually, once the recruits were better trained, Cullen would add in breaking the men into squadrons and teaching them various formations.  The army would then march back until the civilians became visible, do an about face, and repeat this forward and backward movement until time to start setting up camp.  Declan was tasked with traveling with the civilians, doing his best throughout the day to keep them to as hurried a pace as possible.

He had pondered on what to do with Evelyn.  There were spare horses, but Cullen knew, without needing to ask, that she didn’t know how to ride – a situation he would correct when time presented itself.  Nor could she ride with him.  His horse would tire too quickly, and his focus needed to be on the army, not with the mage sitting on his lap.  There was no question she lacked the stamina to keep up with the faster pace of the marching army.  Which left only one option.

“Evelyn,” he said to the young woman standing tensely beside him.  She may have become somewhat more comfortable around him, but she was still apprehensive amid a bunch of strangers.  “You’ll be traveling with the civilians today.  I want you to stay near Declan and do whatever he says.  He’s in charge until we make camp tonight.  Do you understand?”

She nodded and then lifted her chin, exposing her neck to him.  It took Cullen a heartbeat to realize why she was doing such a thing.  His good mood soured immediately.  Because he was issuing her instructions, she expected he would reinforce them with an Order – with a permanent blood Order no less.  Had they been on the road to Kirkwall, when he still knew nothing of her, other than she was an apostate, back when he was still directing his self-hatred onto her, it was a near guarantee that a drop of blood would have been pressed to the red rune.  But it was Haven, not Kirkwall, they journeyed towards.  More so, he better understood her now, and himself.

“That isn’t necessary, Evelyn.  I trust you.”  And he found that he believed the words he had just uttered.  He did trust Evelyn.  He could only hope that one day she would be able to trust him in return.  Cullen realized that he had unconsciously raised his hand and was rubbing his thumb over the rune on the Binding band, something he did all too frequently in his immoral dreams.  Quickly dropping his hand, he reminded her, “Wear the scarf I gave you.  It’s for your protection.”

She wasn’t happy as she dug it out of her pack, less happy when he tied it around her throat, carefully positioning it so none of the harsh band showed.

Satisfied that she seemed nothing but a simple traveler, he told her, “Go on.  Remember to follow Declan’s instructions, and I’ll see you this evening.”

Tugging at the scarf tightly wrapped around her neck, Evelyn nodded before walking over to stand next to Declan.

Sula had finally finished positioning the recruits to her satisfaction, and was standing holding the reins to their horses.  “Typical recruits.  Not a working brain amongst them.”

“We’ll fix that.”

“I almost pity them,” she said with a wicked grin.  “Not even close to a score’s worth of recruits being overseen by two sharp-eyed officers.  They are in for a rough day.”

He grunted in agreement while checking over his mount … such as it was.  He knew Declan had done his best, but the beast hardly appeared able to plow a field, much less carry an armored man for a day’s long ride.  There was an upside, though.  At least he wasn’t having to deal with a war horse’s temperament … and the snapping teeth that typically went with it.  With this placid beast, there was no risk of his fingers being chomped on.

After he’d strapped his saddlebags in place, he mounted, and moved into position near the head of the army.  Sula joined him, and they waited in silence for the first ray of sunlight to break over the horizon.

He signaled for the drummer, a young scamp of a boy that Declan had taken under his wing, to begin stamping out the beat to a standard march.

“Move out!”  His command rose loudly over the booming drum.

The army started its forward movement immediately.

Sula grinned again.  “At least they’ll know how to march properly by the time we get to Haven.”  Within five strides, the recruits were already out of step.  “Maybe.”

When the day finally came to an end, and with it, the marching, Cullen caught himself before he muttered, “Thank the Maker.”  They had managed not even half the distance that had been planned for.  It felt like the army spent more time marching back towards the civilians then they had making forward progress.  Around him, the soldiers were weary (as well as complaining about chafing sensitive bits from their new armor).  Most had held laborious jobs before signing up, but there was a vast difference between plowing fields or hauling bales of hay all day long, and spending hours of doing nothing but mindlessly marching in whatever direction they were ordered.

All the early morning eagerness had been burned out of the new men.  There was significantly less enthusiasm as they collected firewood and hauled water from the nearby lake, while waiting for the civilians to join them to take over the tasks of setting up camp.  Cullen was actually looking forward to the curses and groans that would sound when he announced it was time for weapons training.  All he needed was for the civilians to finally reach them.

It was nearly a bell before he spotted the first of the noncombatants approaching.  Pacing the entire time, he had fought to keep from jumping on his horse and riding out to meet them.  He knew Evelyn was fine, that Declan had kept a close eye on her throughout the day, but he needed to see for himself.  She was, after all, his responsibility.

The civilians began rolling into camp quietly, immediately working to unload the tents, sleeping furs, food stuffs, and all the other supplies they would need that night.  As each wave arrived, they joined the others, some starting to erect tents, others building cookfires.  More continued to roll into camp and still he could not spot Evelyn or Declan.  His pacing increased, becoming somewhat agitated until the remaining stragglers came into view.

Declan and Evelyn were the last to arrive at the campsite.  As soon as she realized they had finally reached their destination, she had stopped, dropping her pack to the ground before bending over to place hands on her knees, taking in gulping breaths.  An incensed Declan stopped when she did, then, scowling when he spotted Cullen standing nearby, directed his horse on to where the other mounts were hobbled.

The mage remained bent over, reminding him of an aged woman with hunched back and gnarled knuckles.  Finally, she straightened, moving slowly with muffled groans of pain.  Her face was coated in road dust, except where sweat had drawn rivulets through it.  The bun she fashioned each morning was now a tangled mess with stray locks plastered to her face and neck.  In other words, Evelyn looked about as pathetic as he’d ever seen.

Rushing up from the darkest part of his soul, he felt a moment of satisfaction at her misery.  She’d brought it on herself, hadn’t she?  If she hadn’t become an apostate, if she hadn’t been at the wrong place at the wrong time, if he hadn’t been forced to Claim her in order to save her, she wouldn’t be suffering right now, would she?  Did she truly think she was capable of trekking all the way to Haven?

Cullen sobered immediately, contrition drowning out his hateful thoughts.  She was undeserving of his scorn, and he was better than this … or should be.  Evelyn was doing the best she could.  Even if she had spent the majority of the day resting in one of the wagons or riding with Declan, she still managed to push herself, almost beyond her capabilities.  His duty was to her care and to her protection, not to revel in her hardships.

For some reason, he continued to stand there, watching the frail mage as she recovered from the day’s arduous trek.  Her labored breathing settled, and the slight rest seemed to have restored some of her strength.  With the strap of her pack now looped back over her shoulder, Evelyn looked around the bustling campsite uncertainly.  She took a hesitant step in one direction before stopping to take another one in a different direction.  After another searching gaze around the space, she finally, with more purpose, began to weave her way through the soldiers and civilians.

He caught up to her, reaching out to take the heavy pack.  “Let me carry that for you,” he insisted.  Now that he was closer, he could see tears shimmering in her eyes, and the downtrodden, defeated turn of her lips.  She likely felt as awful as she looked, which made him feel even more guilty for the odious thoughts he’d just had.  “It’s been a long day, but it’s nearly over now.  Come on.  Let’s find a comfortable place for you to sit, maybe in a spot of shade, and I’ll have someone bring you some tea.  How does that sound?”

She jumped with surprise when he spoke.  Her attention had been so directed that she had failed to see his approach.  “That would be nice,” she uttered though her tone did not match the enthusiasm of her words.  She cast a longing look to a point just beyond him before looking up at him expectedly, a shadow of disappointment lingering in her dark brown eyes.  He glanced back, understanding immediately when he saw the lake.  With a gentle smile, he asked, “Or would you prefer to wash up first?”

“Yes, please.”  This time her voice was rich with eagerness.

They made their way to the rocky shore, Cullen picking a spot away from others.  Evelyn immediately bent over to unlace her boots and gingerly remove her socks.  He winced in sympathy at the blisters forming on the heels and toes of her feet.  Without hesitation, she picked her way over the slippery rocks and pebbles.  She was already wading into the lake, hissing as the coolness surrounded her abused flesh, before he could offer any help.  She knelt, scrubbing at her dirty hands and scooping up water to pour over her dust-coated face, managing to soak the wooden scarf around her neck in the process.  Amused, Cullen could only shake his head.  The exhausted mage was only making matters worse.  She looked appalling with her face and hands now covered with streaks of mud.

“I think you’ll need a cake of soap and a cleaning cloth if you want to do more than shift the dirt around.  You have some in your bag?”  At her nod, he started to lift the flap, but then stopped.  “May I?” he asked with a tilt of his head towards her pack.

Given that mages were never afforded any sort of privacy within the Circles, particularly when it came to their possessions, his request seemed to surprise her.  There were several heartbeats of a stuttered response until she managed to speak clearly.  “Of course.”

With her permission, he opened the leather bag.  At the top was the book he’d given her, now protected from dirt and dust by a wrapping of oiled cloth, as well as the darning kit she had requested.  He dug through the contents, pulling out a cleaning cloth as well as a ragged drying sheet.  He continued to dig through, in search of the soap.  Naturally, it was at the very bottom, pressed up to a medium-sized leather pouch, held shut with a tightly tied string.  There was no question what the bag contained.  His heart began racing, skin crawling as if being attacked by a million stinging insects, vision blurring, lungs burning with the need for air.  Hands clenched, one fisting tight around insubstantial air, the other squeezing on a soap cake … and it was enough.  He could not, would not, lose face in front of Evelyn.  That brief pause was enough to reclaim his resolve.  Lyrium would not conquer him, not this day.

After she had finished cleaning up and was beginning to wade out of the lake, he stepped forward, hands outstretched to grip around her waist.  Shuffling back quickly, she nearly fell back into water.  “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you out of the water.  Come here.”

She shook her head.  “Your boots will get wet.  I can manage.”

He grew a little irritated with her.  “And it will hurt walking back over the rocks.  Stop being a silly child and let me help you.”

That she wasn’t pleased was obvious, though discreet.  There had been a slight stiffening when he touched her, a subtle frown when he set her down, a muted sullen air as she dried her feet and put on her socks, and the tiniest snap of irritation to her movements while she laced up her boots.

He was as confused as he ever was with her reaction.  She was on her last leg, so exhausted she wasn’t thinking clearly.  Her poor feet were covered in blisters.  Walking was painful enough, but to do so over bruising stones must be agony.  The young woman was clearly in need of assistance, yet resented his help.  Did she detest him so much that she would prefer pain over having to endure his touch?  In Amaranthine, she had gotten upset he wouldn’t share the bed with her and now she was annoyed he’d lifted her over some rocks.  He’d never understand her.

Their secluded spot was no longer secluded.  Soldiers and civilians milled around, some cleaning up as Evelyn had done.  Others simply enjoying a short respite after a taxing day.  Near the shoreline stood Declan.  It seemed that the Templar’s earlier annoyance with the young mage had passed, for the young man’s face was full of sympathy and concern as he stared at her.  The same couldn’t be said when Declan’s gaze moved to fall upon Cullen.  The man’s hands balled into tight fists, his muscles tensed, readying for a fight.  With a disdainful scowl, he abruptly turned, stomping his way back to the camp.

“Evelyn, wait here.”  Cullen rushed after Declan, wanting to know why the usually easy-going man was angry.  “Declan, hold a moment.”

The Templar stopped, waiting until Cullen had caught up to turn around and face him.  He stood at attention, his body rigid, his gaze falling to just over his shoulder.  There was a livid flush to his face as he coldly asked, “You wanted something, Commander?”

“It’s about Evelyn,” he started.  “I’m sorry if she was a burden for you today.”

He’d hoped the words would placate the young Templar.  It couldn’t have been easy trying to keep the noncombatants corralled as well as personally overseeing the mage.  His words had the opposite effect.

Declan’s angry flush darkened and his words were clipped as he asked, “Permission to speak plainly?”

“Granted.”  Cullen had been concerned about this since the night Evelyn had been Claimed.  Two had initially stood for the mage -- Samson, the seasoned Templar and Declan, barely out of his recruitment.  Had Cullen not interceded, Evelyn would now be bound to Samson.  But perhaps Declan still looked at Evelyn with longing, imagining what it would be like if he had been the one to Claim her.  It seemed unlikely .... yet Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if the young Templar was jealous of what might have been?

Declan glanced around, assuring himself that none would overhear the conversation.  “I know she is your Claimed and, by Chantry decree, none may interfere with what you do to her, but it isn’t right, you Ordering her to walk the entire day, without break or reprieve.”

“I gave no such Order.  What’s makes you think I did?”

Declan was still angry, Cullen could tell, but it seemed to be burning itself out.  “This morning.  I saw you speaking with her.  She lifted her head and you touched the rune.  I … I … thought you were giving her a permanent Order.”

Cullen wanted to curse.  He’d hoped none had observed his shameful fondling of the rune which gave him such unholy power over Evelyn.  “No.  I gave her no Orders, only instructions.”  He took a moment to ponder the Templar’s earlier words, and he found his own fury growing.  “Declan, are you telling me Evelyn _walked the entire day_?  Why did you not tell her to rest in one of the wagons, or permit her to ride with you?”  It was now Cullen whose muscles were tensing, and hands fisting in preparation for a physical altercation.

“I did,” he defended himself.  “Or I tried to.  I mentioned the wagons several times.  I even arranged for one that she could sit in by herself, since she’s not comfortable around others, but she said she could go on.  A half-bell before we reached camp, I thought she was going to fall to the ground and not have the strength to lift herself back up.  I _told_ her to ride with me, thinking she’d be more comfortable because she at least knows my face and my name, but she wouldn’t.  She said she _had_ to walk.”  Declan rubbed at his neck, shame-faced.  “I’m sorry, Commander.  I jumped to conclusions.  I thought you’d Ordered her to make the day’s trek completely on her own two feet.  Why would she do such a thing?”

Cullen was wondering that himself.  He clapped Declan on his shoulder.  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.  I’ll speak with her.”  Before the Templar could depart, Cullen added, “You did well today.  It isn’t easy, this task you have been given of trying to speed the civilians along.  Keep up the good work.”  He looked at the lowering sun.  “Gather up the soldiers.  I want you and Sula to start putting them through their paces with the training weapons.”

Declan gave him a snappy salute.  “Aye, Commander.”

Cullen made his way back to where Evelyn sat.  The mage had managed to right her hair back into the painfully tight bun she typically wore and was sitting with legs outstretched, her pack pressed up against her hip.  Around her unblemished hand was wrapped the entire length of the woolen scarf he had given her.  She didn’t notice his approach because her complete attention was on the scarred hand she held up in front of her face.

“The sky is not orange.  _I won’t let it be_.  Not ever again.”

He glanced up at the sky.  There were a few spots of oranges as well as yellows and pale reds, but mostly it was a brilliant display of sky blues and bright pinks.  Her words perplexed him, but then again, _Evelyn_ mystified him at every turn.  He began to scuffle his steps, trying to create enough noise so she wouldn’t be startled by his approach.

She glanced back, her scarred hand disappearing quickly into her clothes, and she began to rise.

“No.  Stay seated,” he said.  “We need to talk before we go back to camp.”

Wariness grew across her face and her scarred hand made a reappearance.  She began to nervously wrap the scarf around the damaged one.  Then, once she reached the end, to wind it back to the first hand.

He sat down, close enough that they could speak without fear of being overheard but not so close that she would grow even more anxious.  Rubbing at the back of his neck, Cullen tried to figure out the best approach to starting the conversation.  As he sat there thinking, Evelyn’s winding and rewinding of the scarf on her hands sped up, growing more and more agitated with each pass.  All he was doing, with his delaying tactic, which he was not so cowardly as to deny was his purpose, was frightening her even more than a bluntly asked question would be.

“Evelyn, did you lead Declan into believing that I expected you to walk the entire day?”

“I …” Her mouth hung open for a heartbeat before snapping shut.  Her pale face grew more pallid.  The scarf that had been winding between her two hands was now being clawed, leaving one end in tattered shreds of woolen yarn.

Keeping his voice gentle but insistent, he said, “Answer me.”

She reacted as if he had struck her.  Hunching protectively in on herself, the tears started flowing, her hands gripping and ripping at the scarf with more anxious intensity.  Sniffling heavily, she finally managed to answer him with a stuttered, “Yes.”

He wanted to be angry with her, wanted to shout and yell and demand an explanation, but her tears put a stop to that.  Slowly, as not to alarm her, he reached out a single finger, and with a gentle pressure, got her to raise her chin.  Her youthful face was blotchy, tears soaking her cheeks.  He took the scarf from her hands, using it to pat dry her face.  “Shhh.  I’m not upset but I need to know why.”

The tears continued to flow, the sniffling growing stronger.  “I needed to prove that I could.”

Cullen felt as if he’d been punched in the balls by a Qunari … _twice_.  This went back to Kirkwall, to when she’d overheard his hateful words.  He’d called her useless baggage, and she was trying to prove to him that she wasn’t.  This was all his fault and it was up to him to fix it.

He dried her face again, and lacking anything more appropriate, held the scarf to her nose so she could clear it.  Tears were still shimmering in her eyes, but thankfully, were no longer falling.  She wrapped her arms around her, hugging herself tight, delicately hiccupping the entire time.  “I can do better.”

“I know you can.”  He started to reach out, wanting to rub soothing circles on her back, but her cringing put a stop to that.  “The thing is, Evelyn, you don’t have to prove anything to me.  I won’t think less of you if you rode in one of the wagons all day, or, if you wish, walk part of the day and ride with Declan the rest of it.  I’m certain most of the people you traveled with today took breaks from time to time.”

Her nod was abstracted, expression somber as she scrutinized the scarred hand resting in her lap.  When she spoke, whispered really, he was reminded of a lost, forlorn child.  “I wasn’t trying to prove it to you.  I was trying to prove it to myself.”

What could he do?  She had such a low opinion of herself already.  If he told her she had to take breaks, she’d believe he thought her to be incapable, but if he didn’t try to get her to agree to ride in a wagon for at least part of the day, she might push herself too far.  “I can understand wanting to prove something to yourself, and I think it’s admirable that you are determined to do so.  But remember, Evelyn, not everyone is capable of doing the same things.”

She’d perked up when he first started speaking.  Then she had wilted.  Looking at her now crest-fallen face, he should have stopped with his praise, but this was an important lesson for the mage to learn.  “It’s okay to need help.  There’s nothing wrong with not being able to do the things others can, and it’s acceptable to admit it.  Look at me.  I don’t know anything about healing plants, but you’re an expert.  Do you think less of me because of that?”

Her mouth dropped open with a hasty shaking her head.  “Of course not.”

“And what about all the organizing of the communiqués you’ve done?  I could have done it, but not nearly as quickly or as efficiently as you have.  I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my duties, if you weren’t helping with all the reports, and checking and updating the inventories.”

There was a slight twinkle of joy in her brown eyes, a tiny lifting of her lips into a pleased smile.

“I’m not going to tell you that you can’t walk the entire day, but I do want your promise that you will take a break if it gets to be too much.  We can’t have the army’s healer too exhausted to do her job, can we?”

Her smile grew.  “No, I guess we can’t.”

He stood, holding out his hand to help her up, and she accepted his assistance without hesitation.  They walked back to the campsite, or rather he walked while Evelyn limped, wincing with every step.  It wasn’t until he felt her stiffen that Cullen realized he’d slipped a supportive arm around her shoulder.  They stopped, staring at each other.  A myriad of expressions flashed across Evelyn’s face, too quickly appearing and disappearing for him to name.  He had told her it was alright to accept help, but was she ready for that?  Cullen was about to pull back his arm, to withdraw the aid the mage had not requested and apparently did not desire, when, blinking up at him, she leaned - melted really - into his side, drawing from his strength.

His spirits lifted.  He’d wanted this, for longer than he realized.  Until that moment, he hadn’t known how much he had been yearning for Evelyn to start feeling more relaxed around him, and finally, it seemed that she was.

The field on the outskirt of the camp was filled with the sounds of moans and groans as the soldiers got their first taste of working with training weapons.  Muscles trembled, sweat poured as they struggled to keep the heavy arms aloft, while Declan and Sula stalking through the ranks, made corrections where necessary.  Declan paused when he spotted them, giving an approving nod when he saw the mage in much better spirits than when he last saw her.

Cullen led Evelyn over to the large fire encircled with logs, near his tent.  She dropped her pack to the ground before lowering to sit beside it, leaning tiredly back against one of the logs.  Around them, the campsite was a hive of bustling activity.  Shelters were still being erected.  Some folks were carrying sleeping furs around to the many tents.  Others were hauling water from the lake.  Horses were being groomed, fed, and watered, as were the druffalo.  Firewood was being stacked to feed the many cookfires.  People were chopping vegetables, while others stirred the contents of caldrons with large paddles.  Everywhere around them, every single person was involved in some sort of task.

Evelyn’s eyes flittered around, following the movements of as many people as she could.  She looked down at the ground she sat on and then back to where the civilians were hard-pressed to complete the setting up the camp in the dwindling sunlight.  With an exhausted sigh, she pushed herself to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Cullen asked.

Gnawing worriedly on her bottom lip, there was an anxious tremble to her slight frame as she looked around the camp.  “I should be helping.”

“Not tonight.”  In many ways, Evelyn was a child, unable to recognize her own limits.  Until she learned how to make her own boundaries, he’d just have to set them for her.  “You pushed yourself too hard today.  I want you to stay here and rest until supper time.  Do you understand?”

Evelyn nodded obediently, but there was an air of resentment about her.  She was not happy being told no.

“I have to go work with the soldiers.  Is there anything you need before I go?”

He laughed at her pouting frown and her sulky, “No.”

They instructed the soldiers until full night set in, working them in small groups since they did not have enough training weapons for everyone.  He and Sula headed back to the campfire, while Declan remained to assign the patrol rotations.  He found Evelyn sorting through a pile of parchments, a new messenger bag by her side.  It wasn’t exactly the kind of resting he’d had in mind, but at least she wasn’t exerting herself physically.

He made her set the work aside when the bowls of stew were delivered.  If there was any benefit to Evelyn draining herself that day, it was that, for once, he did not have to urge her to eat.  She practically inhaled the stew, as well as a second bowl, and shyly asked for a piece of fruit to round out her meal.

They enjoyed mugs of tea after dinner.  Cullen and Sula discussed some of the soldiers who showed signs of potential leadership material, while Evelyn, still leaning back against the log, watched the dancing play of colors in the fire.  Sula broached the subject of giving Declan a squad of his own to train, when they had more recruits.  She had an eye for talent and Declan had impressed her during the training session.  It was something Cullen planned to give considerable consideration.  The young man was the newest of them, and therefore the least invested in the Templar way of doing things.  Most Holy’s army needed new ways of training, new tactics in battle if they were going to be capable of facing both Templar and mage.  Perhaps Declan could give them the fresh approach that would tip the balance in their favor.

“Cullen!” Sula called out.  “Grab Evelyn’s mug.”

He looked down.  The mage was asleep, and the hand holding her cup was tilting, about to pour hot liquid all over her lap.  Managing to snatch it before it spilled, he passed the mug over to Sula, then knelt, slipping arms under her knees and around her back.  As he lifted her, Evelyn’s eyes fluttered open.  She drowsily looked up at him, then closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder.  He carried her into his tent, laid her down on the sleeping furs, removed her boots, and covered her with another fur.  Sula had followed, bringing Evelyn’s belongings and the messenger pack, which she set near the entrance to the tent.  He gave the mage a last look before departing to deal with the rest of the tasks that had to be seen to that night.

Bells later, Cullen was able to return to his tent for his respite.  Evelyn had woken at one point, for her hair was now braided.  And she had left him something.  With all planning and preparations for their first day on the road, he had forgotten this also marked the start of one of Evelyn’s many duties, and the evidence she had begun was laying atop the sleeping fur.  When she had been assigned the task, she had been told the Templars had enough lyrium to see them through till the departure from the city.  Now that they were on the road, it was her duty to distribute the daily dosages.

He had forgotten how beautiful it was.  Not since Kirkwall had he beheld its perfection.  The vial was in his hands before he realized.  Cullen held it up to the brazier heating the tent.  In all the decades he partook of the fluid, he’d never noticed the tiny sparkles of white that floated in the lustrous pale blue.  Reverent fingers skimmed over the stopper.  He must be imagining it, but he could smell its spicy scent, feel its icy burn on his tongue.  His heart began racing, matching the pulsing of the draught he held in his hand.

Just a drop.  That’s all he needed.  A single drop.  Surely such a miniscule amount couldn’t hurt.  In fact, it would help.  Reduce his headaches, lessen his trembling hands, clear his thoughts, quiet his doubts.

The stopper was suddenly between his fingers.  The scent surrounded him, so much sharper and tantalizing than his dull memory.  One drop.  That’s all he would permit himself, but he _had_ to taste it, experience it, feel its strength flow through him.

The vial was to his lips, and already his resolve to permit just a single drop to pass his lips was failing.  A sip.  A gulp.  The whole damned thing.  All he need do was tip his hand ever so slightly …

Evelyn murmured in her sleep, drawing his attention from the poison that still had him leashed, despite his abstinence.  She had pushed herself today, to her very limits, and still she did not stop.  She had needed to prove that she could, and so she had.

He looked at the draught caught in his fist.  If Evelyn could work so hard to prove herself, so then so could he.  He didn’t need lyrium.  He didn’t _want_ lyrium.  He had made a vow to never consume the repugnant drug ever again.  And he would prove to himself that he could.  With effort, he forced the stopper back into place and cast the vial upon the bed furs, staring at it with loathing and longing intertwined.  He needed it out of sight.  If only he could wake Evelyn, Command her to hide it away, but this was his task, and his alone.

He snatched up the repulsive potion, nearly crushing the vial in his fist.  Tearing open her pack, he rooted around for the leather pouch, undid the binding and thrust it inside.  It was only once he had tied the pouch closed again and righted her pack, did he feel the struggle was over.  He’d won this battle, and he was determined to continue winning.

After removing his armor, he crawled into the furs, rolling so he could look at the sleeping mage.  She was still as mysterious as the first night she had come into his life.  And just as surprising.  She showed a bravery and a tenacity that he never would have expected from one so meek.  He had hated her when he had been forced to Claim her.  Had been so consumed with anger and guilt and outrage, that he hadn’t made any attempt to lessen her fear or pain.  Maker, he hadn’t even bothered to ask her name for a full day after raping her.  At every turn, he had resented her, and begrudged the responsibilities that came with her.

It was strange, comparing where they had been to where they were now.  She no longer cowered with every breath she took.  He no longer lashed out with every given opportunity.  Where he once felt she was nothing but useless baggage, she now held critical roles within the army.  Where once she held her feelings tightly in check behind a neutral mask, he was now able to see past it, to capture her moments of happiness, distress, or irritation.  Where he once believed her weak and incapable, he was now drawing from her example to prove that he could resist lyrium, that he could fight his addiction.

He had much to be grateful for, not the least of which was the woman sleeping by his side.  Leaning over, he whispered into the ear of the mage he had Claimed, “Thank you, Evelyn.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude as always to bushviper for all the hand-holding, cheerleading, and beta-ing ... not to mention steering me in the right direction whenever I hit a wall. This story has become as much hers as it is mine.

Haven was tantalizing close.  In less than a fortnight, the army would be marching through its gate.  That fact alone should have made Cullen elated … if only they weren’t woefully behind schedule.  As it was, they would be hard-pressed if they were to arrive in time for the scheduled start of the Conclave.  The only bright spot was that Divine Justinia’s arrival was also delayed.  She, like her army, had experienced countless delays.

Unprecedented, unrelenting storms had pounded the army’s every step for weeks upon weeks.  Their already ponderous progress was brought to a near standstill from the sheeting torrents that made it impossible to see any measurable distance.  The dirt road they followed had transformed into a muddy morass, trapping legs and boots in its suctioning quagmire.  The civilians had fared worse.  Daily, sometimes with every bell, a heavily-loaded wagon or hand cart had become stuck, requiring grueling effort to free them.  Even after the squalls relented, the mud remained, and other effects of the spring storms proved to be far-reaching.  Flooded stretches, risk of mudslides, tracts of downed trees, and a washed-out bridge required detour after detour, adding weeks to what was already a difficult schedule.

Summer had brought no reprieve.  Crystal clear skies were a blessing at first.  The sun had dried the standing waters and baked the dirt road into a hard surface once again.  But just as the spring storms had been unrelenting, so too had been the summer’s heat.  It crushed down around them, sapping strength, making each breath burn within their lungs.  And still the temperature rose.  All too soon, the sweltering heat made it too dangerous to travel during much of the day.  Cullen had done the only thing he could – starting each day’s march long before dawn, ending long past dusk, and having the soldiers and civilians sheltering the best they could during the bells in-between.

As the army drew closer to Haven, Cullen had studied the schedule that he, Cassandra, and Leliana devised months back in Kirkwall.  It wasn’t the easiest of decisions.  They had not met the projected totals of recruits, but with each pass of the sun, they were losing precious days and might not arrive in time.  So, he had modified the recruitment tour, eliminating planned stops in a number of the smaller towns and hamlets.  Even with the lower than expected numbers, Cullen felt confident the army could still provide the necessary security at the Conclave.

What had once been not even a score of men was now an army of four squadrons, nearly enough for a full platoon.  It wasn’t the numbers he wanted, but he would manage to make it work.  Those soldiers who had joined earlier in the tour now carried full arms.  Those not as well trained were consigned to carry the much heavier and cumbersome training weapons during their marches.

Cullen had taken Sula’s advice by giving Declan his own unit.  The Templar had been permitted first choice of the recruits, making, what Cullen considered, some odd choices.  But the man had made it work.  Declan trained them hard.  His unit drilled each morning before breaking their fast.  Then at the end of the day, they trained with the rest of the squadrons, before breaking for a brief evening meal, and then drilling late into the night.  He proved to be a hard task-master, demanding excellence from each of his soldiers, but he was also patient, spending long bells helping his men master the many fighting techniques that might one day save their lives.

If only he had managed to make as much progress with Evelyn as he had with the army, but that required time which had proved to be a precious commodity neither of them could often spare.  With each stop, with each new soldier, his duties expanded.  He had more men to oversee, of course.  But there were also training schedules to draw up, patrol rotations to finalize, promotions to consider, and the restructuring of the men into squadrons.  He had to study the map, marking off the pitiful advancement they made each day, and contemplate unconsidered shortcuts that might help shave leagues off their journey.  Leliana had finally sent him the schematic of Haven, and he spent bell after bell studying its layout, planning out how best to provide security during the auspicious gathering, and sending off suggestions on what could be done in the meantime to shore up its defenses.

Evelyn’s duties were just as demanding.  Every day saw multiple messenger bags delivered to her.  Each missive had to be read, sorted, summarized, and replies written when needed.  She tracked the inventory of supplies and equipment, noting which of the stocks were getting low.  As the army’s healer, she had her infirmary to run, dealing with the ailments that popped up day to day.  Though mostly minor complaints, it often kept her occupied until long after sunset.

No matter how busy he was, no matter the multitude of tasks demanding his attention, he had always made a point of being there to greet Evelyn each day when she arrived at the campsite.  As with the first day’s march, she refused to take a break in one of the many wagons or to ride with Declan, insisting on making the trek on her own two feet, even through the weeks of slogging through thick mud and the merciless heat.  The first months had been challenging for her.  Eventually, though, her strength and endurance had grown, and while it never became easy for her, the day’s march no longer taxed the mage to her very limits.  Cullen was pleased to see Evelyn was gaining weight.  Her face had filled out, no longer a study of sharp angles, and despite her still too large clothing, he could tell she was becoming sleekly muscled.

She was still the last to arrive each eve, but this seemed more by choice, rather than any lack of stamina.  Even all these months later, she kept to herself, preferring to stay on the outskirts of the camp, or to the rear of the travelers as they journeyed during the day.  Cullen had noted the soldiers and civilians tended to give her a wide berth as well, which explained much of her continued isolation.  His plan of hiding her status as a Claimed mage under a scarf had been a miserable failure.  Either the scarves somehow became too damaged to effectively cover the Binding band, or Evelyn managed to misplace them altogether.  Eventually, he’d stopped bothering to buy replacements.

They had the same routine each day.  He would greet her, inquire after her welfare while leading her to the fire being built near where his tent would be soon erected, and insist she rest.  And, dutifully, she would … until his attention was needed elsewhere.  He’d be speaking with one of the newly appointed corporals or taking the soldiers through their drills, when he would spot Evelyn helping to set up the camp if she wasn’t engaged with the infirmary.  It was always solitary tasks – collecting firewood, hauling water, or delivering him mugs of foul smelling tea to help him get through the long bells before he could rest.  His first impulse was to put a stop to it, to demand she leave the camp setup to the others, but he found he couldn’t.  She was still trying to build her self-worth, still trying to find her place.  He didn’t want to impede on that in any way … and he couldn’t face the tears that would flow if he did prohibit it.

While Evelyn was the first to retire each night, and the last to rise each morning (with much cursing until he had learned the trick of thrusting a mug of strong tea into her hand the moment she woke), Cullen was the first to greet the morning, and the last to seek his furs.  The scene that met him when he entered his tent was always the same.  Evelyn asleep, with whichever book of the Chant she was reading at the time loosely clutched in her small hands, and a vial of that detestable poison laying atop the furs, waiting to be consumed.  It continued to be a struggle, though none as difficult as that first night.  It still called to him.  He still yearned for it with his entire being, but he managed to draw enough strength to slip it back into her pack every night.

Just as the first several months had been a challenge for the mage, it had been no less so for the former Templar.  Weakness wracked his body.  He hid his lack of appetite behind his aversion of turnips, an all too frequent meal.  Headaches blinded him.  He was agitated and anxious.  Horrific nightmares awaited him in the Fade nearly every night.  His thoughts would race.  At times, he grew confused, unsure of what he had been doing.  And his feet had a tingling itch no matter how hard he scratched.  He feared he would go mad.

But then it eased.  The symptoms lessened, became bearable, until fading nearly completely away.  Lyrium still shackled him, but it no longer controlled him.  If only he could say the same of the lingering impotence.  Cullen had come to accept that this just might be his punishment for not abstaining sooner.

Cullen shook himself from his reverie.  Now was not the time for wool gathering.  He needed to keep focus, needed to stay on alert.  The recent intel from Leliana’s scouts reported increased bandit activity in the area.  He doubted any would be foolish enough to attack a moving army, but he had taken precautions nonetheless.  Declan’s squadron had been assigned to travel with the civilians, which thankfully, were smaller in numbers now.  On this last leg of the trek, there were only a handful of carters hauling the army’s surplus equipment, several merchants with heavily loaded wagons filled with supplies for Haven, a few pilgrims as well as some who would be attending the Conclave, and, of course, Evelyn.

He was still keeping the main army marching ahead of the noncombatants but had greatly shortened the distance he maintained between the two groups.  In fact, the army had likely pulled too far ahead already.  “To the rear, march.”  His voice thundered over the three squadrons.  The soldiers paused, sharply turned, and began marching in the opposite direction.  To his critical eye, they had made major improvement from the early days, but they hadn’t quite perfected the move yet.  He was considering stopping to drill the squadrons until the others caught up with them when he heard three short blasts from a battle horn off in the distance.

Cullen immediately sprang into action.  “Double time, MARCH!”  Another three short blasts sounded.  The convoy was in trouble.  Nervous excitement rippled through the soldiers.  He kicked his horse into a canter, riding to the rise of a hill.  Sula soon joined him.  Even with the distance, mayhem met his gaze.  He had let the army pull too far ahead, and outlaws were taking advantage.  The civilians were too spread out.  Dangerously spread out.  The front of the column was already under attack.  The bulk of the soldiers providing protection were engaging the raiders.  People were trying to run for safety that simply wasn’t there.  Fires were burning.  Of more concern, those at the back of the long line of wagons and travelers were unaware of the larger force coming up behind them.

“Sula, come up from the rear with two of the squads.  I’ll take the last one and join up with Declan.  We’ll push towards each other and grind them between us.”

Dismounting, he took his place at the head of the squadron, leading the charge towards the battle.  Behind him the soldiers roared as they raced to help defend the civilians.  Each time the horn sounded, Cullen’s grip on his sword tightened.  Finally reaching the battle, he waded into fray, quickly realizing the bandits were neither trained enough, nor organized enough, to warrant the level of bravado they exhibited.  They must truly be desperate to stage such an attack with rusted swords and improvised farm tools with an army so close by.  The raiders soon broke off, grabbing what little supplies they could before running away.  Through the smoke and dust haze, he could see the larger force at the end of the column was also breaking off.

“Do we pursue?” Declan shouted as he jogged over.

He looked around at the ravages of the strike, at the injured, at the dead and dying, at those in shock, and those still paralyzed by fear.  As much as he wanted to decimate the bandits so they could never again assault innocent folk, his priority was to the people he had agreed to provide protection, and to get his troops to Haven in time for the Conclave.

“No.  We lick our wounds and move on.  For now, I want you to organize the soldiers.  Half are to patrol while the other half set up camp and help tend to the injured.”

_Injured!_   Evelyn … where was she?  Shouldn’t she be tending to the wounded?  He stepped away from Declan, his gaze searching the pockets of people who were busy trying to put out fires, helping the injured, or keeping the druffalo and horses from bolting in fear.  There was no sign of the mage.  “Evelyn?” he yelled out.  Faces turned towards him, but not the one he needed to see.  He called her name again and again it was to no avail.

Finally, he roared out an Order that echoed across the field.  “EVELYN!  COME HERE RIGHT NOW!”

Uneasiness began to stir as he slowly turned, searching for any glimpse of her.  Heartbeats passed and still she did not appear.  Perhaps she was injured and couldn’t get to him.  That would mean the Claiming might be punishing her at this very moment for disobeying his Order.  He sped towards the back of the line of wagons, where she could usually be found.  Rounding a cart, Cullen slammed into the mage, who had been rushing towards him, knocking her to the ground.

He froze for a moment.  Evelyn was clutching her neck, her face twisted in pain, desperately trying to draw in air.  And there was blood.  Too much blood.  On her tunic, on her pants, smeared across her face, dripping from her hands.  He quickly knelt, grasping her shoulders, patting down the length of her arms, lightly pressing her belly, trying to determine where she was wounded.

The grimace on her face morphed into irritation and she was croaking out something, but he was too focused on checking her over to make note of what she was saying.  There was a tussle as she attempted to rise while he tried to keep her sitting on the ground.

Fury burned in her eyes, her hands balled into fists.  Her voice sounded raw and raspy when she snapped, “I’m here as Ordered.”  Again, she tried to stand, and again he wouldn’t permit it.

“Stay still so I can see to your injuries.”  He was growing frustrated with her continued resistance.  “I only have basic field training in treating wounds, so you will need to talk me through what to do.”

Understanding softened her angry scowl, and she stopped fighting him.  Her voice became low and comforting.  “I’m not hurt.  The blood isn’t mine.”

Relief loosened his tense muscles, yet he found his blood begin to boil.  “When I call for you, you come.  Do you understand?”

Her livid frown returned, and intensified.  “I didn’t come until forced by the Claiming because I was trying to save a man’s life.  Do you understand that?” she spat.  Evelyn shoved away his hands and hastily stood.  “If I am to be punished, you’ll have to wait.  The injured must take priority.”

So taken aback by her uncharacteristic boldness, all Cullen could say was a weak, “Go.”

He watched her retreating back, forcing himself to set aside the anger.  Evelyn had given him a fright, but that was no excuse for lashing out at her.  Since the night he had Claimed her, she’d become his responsibility.  It was his duty to see to her safety, to her well-being.  If she had been harmed … or worse.  No, he would not permit himself to even contemplate such a scenario.  He had failed her today, but no more.  Steps would be taken to ensure her safety.  For now, though, she was right.  The wounded must be tended.

For bells she worked diligently, along with a small team of volunteers with rudimentary healing abilities.  At first, she was her typical self, tentative and meek.  Soon though, an entirely different creature emerged.  She became resolute, assertive, snapping out orders with the confidence of a general on the eve of certain victory, quickly organizing everyone.  Sending some to collect the injured, instructing others to spread out sleeping furs and drying cloths so none would be left to sit on the hard ground.  The only time her certitude wavered was while she was issuing directions to Sula and to him.  Evelyn caught herself, gnawing worried at her lip, stammering out an apology when she realized she’d been ordering them about like they were part of her ragtag group of amateur medics.  Sula had been a tad offended, but she’d accepted Evelyn’s apology easily enough and tasked her men with setting up tents for the infirmary.  Cullen had shrugged it off, concerned more with what needed to be done, and immediately set about assigning men to build the fire the mage wanted.  And to haul plenty of water for heating on the fire.  _Hot, not boiling_.  Evelyn had been emphatic about that.

Cullen looked around at what was quickly becoming a field hospital, relieved that the situation was not as dire as he had initially feared.  There were casualties, but mostly limited to the failed raiders.  When he’d first spied the attack taking place, he had imagined the aftermath being a mass of gaping wounds, mangled limbs, and scorched skin.  They had been relatively lucky.  To his experienced eye, only a few of the injured were of a serious nature.

Still, this was not what Cullen had intended when he’d appointed Evelyn to serve as the army’s healer while they journeyed to Haven, where experienced medics were awaiting them.  At most, she should have had to deal with nothing more taxing than a few broken bones, a smattering of stomach ailments, and some foot sores.  She, along with her team, handled it admirably though, caring for each of the wounded with dedication and courage.

He had to wonder, watching as she assessed the injuries, if she had the necessary training.  To be sure, as a mage who lived her entirety in a Circle, her exposure to more serious wounds would have been limited.  Evelyn had mentioned being permitted to gather elfroot from the gardens and to brew healing potions in Ostwick, but that hardly was testament to practical experience as a medic.  Yet, she had managed to successfully produce lyrium on her first attempt, an accomplishment that still astonished Cullen.  None could doubt her proficiency with curative agents, but, to his experienced eye, a few of the injuries appeared to be critical.  He could only hope Evelyn’s skills would be enough to match the severity.

She assigned most of her volunteers to deal with the less serious injuries.  Her confident poise lapsed when she began inspecting the burns on one of the injured.  Evelyn probably wasn’t even aware she had begun anxiously rubbing her scarred hand against her thigh.  Fortunately, he was not the only one who noticed her blanching face.  A woman, with a kindly understanding smile, stepped forward, offering to tend to the patient in her place.  The mage gratefully gave her instructions, and promised to check back with her later.  That still left Evelyn with some gravely wounded patients to tend.

The first had a long deep gash across his gut, and in little time, Cullen came to the same conclusion as Evelyn.  There was nothing that could be done for the elderly man except to make him comfortable.  There was a flash of anguish on her young face, a feeling he shared.  This man, he could not recall his name, had been with them since the start.  In Amaranthine, he’d argued with Cullen that despite his aged state, he still had the endurance to make the pilgrimage.  It had been his only wish – to see with his very own eyes the Temple of Sacred Ashes before he joined the Maker’s side.  Because of Cullen’s arrogance believing that no one would attack the noncombatants with an army so close by, he would never reach Haven.  He wouldn’t even manage to live long enough to see one last sunset.  Evelyn had murmured a short prayer, before squaring her shoulders determinedly, and moving on to the next patient.

As he watched her work, he was struck anew with a long-held belief.  Go into any tavern and, soon enough, someone would start singing a ballad about the heroism of soldiers and of Templars who battled to preserve their lives and limbs while fighting off aggressors.  Yet there were no songs praising the efforts of the other heroes in war – the medics and healers who fought _against_ death.  They were just as worthy, if not more so.  Too many times Evelyn had plunged her hands into heated water so she could scrub away the blood of one patient before covering them with the blood of another.  Her unmarred hand was now as reddened as her scarred one, and probably as pained, but she did not stop.  Not once did she flinch, even when she had to cause her patients temporary pain in order to heal them.  Once she finished treating the more gravely wounded, she continued on.

The sun had long set and those not involved with setting up camp were holding torches aloft so that the healers could continue their work.  Evelyn mixed potions to ease pain or induce sleep.  She ground up medicinals for poultices to stave off infection.  She checked bandages, and soothed furrowed brows.  That she was exhausted was obvious, but the mage simply wouldn’t relent.  She ignored suggestions from the other medics that she needed a break, that they could monitor the injured while she rested.  Evelyn could ignore _their_ suggestions, but the same could not be said when Cullen demanded she join him at a fire for a hot meal and a short respite.

Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe due to it, Cullen found himself growing amused with Evelyn as he escorted her over to the fire.  If Varric had been there to set her into prose, the word “crabby” would have made frequent appearances.  She flopped on the ground, exhausted, resting her back on the log, and glanced up at him with a dour pout.  It was quite evident that she was peeved he was taking her away from her work.

“The choices are meager tonight, but is there anything you would prefer for dinner?” he asked congenially.

Her frown grew as she petulantly answered, “Nothing too heavy.”

That earned her a chuckle, which in turn earned him a fierce scowl.

It took some cajoling to get her to drink down the druffalo broth and eat the small chunk of bread he brought her.  That she utterly drained was in little doubt.  The mage could barely stop yawning, and she had to keep shaking herself awake.  Once she’d finished her meal, he stood, holding out a hand to assist her up.  “Now you need to get some sleep.”

“No,” she countered.  “What I need is to get back to my duties.”

Cullen bit back the exasperated sigh that nearly escaped.  “Not until you get some rest.”

Cocking her head, she studied his firm gaze.  Her shoulders drooped in defeat when she recognized he would not yield.  “Fine, but I want to wash up first.”

Cullen stared at her for several heartbeats, waiting for her to take her leave.  Evelyn stared back, her expression growing impatient.  Eventually, she crankily snapped, “I need some hot water, soap, and a cleaning cloth.”

The order had been given with such a snap that he had to resist saluting her.  Cullen realized with a smirk that she’d been waiting for him to serve her!  If he was still harboring doubts about thrusting so many duties on the mage, they were well quashed now.  She was no longer the little mouse hardly able to squeak if asked a direct question.  Her confidence had grown to the point she was comfortable issuing _him_ orders.

He quickly fetched the items and, with an ironic bow, knelt before her.  Her cheeks flushed and she immediately began to protest, but Cullen gently grasped her chin and wiped her face.  “You did very well today, Evelyn.  You should be proud.”

The mage tucked her face down, not in embarrassment or with blushing pride, but in confusion.  It was as if she was as unaccustomed with compliments as she was with, well, freedom.  He would have liked to have continued praising her, but now was not the time for a serious discussion of her worth and incredible job she’d done today.  He finished washing face, then her hands and asked, “Better?”

Her voice was soft and weary as she whispered, “Yes.  Thank you.”

He stood, and this time Evelyn accepted the hand he held out.  “Now off to bed.  I don’t want to see you until you’ve had at least four bells of sleep.”

Still holding on to his hand, she sternly looked up at him.  “Only as long as you join me.  You need to rest just as much as I do.”

Patrol rotations had already been set.  The camp was set up.  People were tending to the wounded, and the dead had been dealt with.  Sula and Declan could handle anything that popped up in the meantime.

“Alright, my little general,” he said with a smile.  “At least four bells worth of sleep for both of us.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most exciting, I am pleased to share the artwork my dear friend Miss_ragdoll84 commissioned from the talented artist Kawareen for my milestone birthday. It is perfection and I hope you love it as much as I do.
> 
> I say this frequently, but I am indebted to bushviper for all her help with my story in general, and with this chapter in particular. For what was supposed to be an easy chapter to write (this is the first on many chapters that I was particularly excited to get to), it turned into a near nightmare with the massive numbers of complete rewrites in order to get the balance of things just right. My poor dear friend had to read so many different versions that I feared she would grow sick and tired of me. Luckily though, she weathered through and managed, as always, to point out just what wasn't working and offer suggestions to get me back on track.
> 
> And Battythebat, I promised you zero angst in this chapter. Turns out I lied. Blame bushviper.
> 
> In the comments of the last chapter, I'd mentioned that I was going to be rewriting the face-washing scene. That's still the plan ... eventually. Just not now. When I do get around to it, I'll let you know.

Commissioned by my dear friend Miss_ragdoll84 from the talented artist Kawareen.

The next morning it took considerably longer for the army to get on its way.  The contents of one of the wagons needed to be emptied to make room for the wounded who were unable to walk.  Supplies and equipment were shuffled between all the wagons and carts until no more could be held. Cullen felt a bit of delight ordering that a sizeable stack of turnips be abandoned.  Belts might have to be tightened for a few days, but they were close enough to Haven that he was not worried about reducing their rations at this juncture.

No longer would the army march ahead of the noncombatants.  Though it was unlikely the raiders from yesterday would be so bold (or foolish) to attack again, there were reports of other bandits in the area.  The same could not be safely said of them. Cullen had made a serious error in judgement. He would not repeat his mistake.

The soldiers had a new dedication now, a stronger focus, more discipline.  They no longer simply viewed the journey as some sort of grand adventure. Many had blooded their weapons, or been blooded, in the clash with the outlaws.  There had been no need for the officers to call them for training that morn. Even before false dawn, the soldiers had gathered, taking themselves through the exercises with a fierceness absent in the months prior.

Finally the wagons, carts, and civilians were lined up, with the soldiers evenly split to march along each side of the column.  All that they were awaiting was his command to head out, and all he was waiting for was for Evelyn to complete her check of the more seriously injured.  He was indulgent as she scrutinized the wounds of each patient, less so as she repeated her rounds, reexamining dressings and the snugness of splints tied to broken limbs.  When she started a third round, his patience was at an end.

“Evelyn, come here.”

Her head popped up, nodding quickly.  Since his directive did not have the strong pull of an Order, she finished testing the bandages she was checking before hopping out of the wagon.  She walked over to him, a perplexed expression on her face. “Yes?”

While reaching down to lift her on to his lap, he said, “From now on you’re riding with me.”

Shuffling quickly out of his reach, she looked over her shoulder at the wagon full of patients.  “But I …” Instantly she realized that she was arguing him in full view of the entire company, something a Claimed simply did not do to her Templar.  Evelyn bit worriedly at her lip, face flushing with embarrassment. “Yes, of course,” she said meekly. “If … if you will give me just a few heartbeats.”  She ran over to one of the carts, scrambling to climb inside. Soon she was back, her arms overloaded with a pile of sleeping furs. Fumbling to hold the bulk in one arm, she held a fur out to him.

“I’ve already got one for you to sit on,” he said with a nod to the fur spread across his lap.

Still holding it out, she explained, “Two will be more comfortable.”

With a grin, he took it, and placed the fur atop the other one, creating a thick cushion.  “And the other furs?”

“It’s cold,” was her tetchy answer.

Cullen had to give her that.  The temperatures had been steadily dropping, and there’d by snow be the end of the day.  He could smell it in the air. He helped her onto his lap, and waited while she arranged things to her liking.  One fur was spread over his chest plate, because, as she whispered in explanation, the metal was both hard and chilly.  She draped a second one around her shoulders, drawing it tightly around her shivering frame. The third, much smaller than the others, she kept neatly folded in her lap with her bag.

“And what’s that for?”

She defensively pulled it to her chest, as if she feared he would tell her she couldn’t keep it.  “To be used as a pillow should I wish to nap.”

His grin growing, pleased that she was finally not only speaking up for her wants and needs but also managing to procure them for herself, he said, “Very wise of you.”  His mood sobered somewhat as he looked down at her. “We’re in dangerous territory. Until we reach Haven, you will ride with me, and when we are not traveling, I want you to stay close to me at all times.  Do you understand?”

She murmured her agreement as she leaned back against his chest, hardly taking note when he roared, “MOVE OUT!”

Having her ride with him probably wasn’t the wisest of decisions.  Evelyn would be significantly more protected if she stayed in the wagon with the injured, at the very center of the convoy with lines of soldiers on either side.  But he found he couldn’t bring himself to permit it. She’d given him a fright following the raid and he couldn’t go through that again. If anything happened, he needed to know where she was, and the only way he could guarantee that was if she was always with him.

For a time, Evelyn occupied herself with studying the landscape, but the open fields dotted with leafless trees and studded here and there with a few boulders wasn’t enough to keep her attention for long.  She dug into her bag, pulling out a large, thick book though it wasn’t one of the many canticles he’d been gifting her over the months since they had departed Amaranthine. He’d purchased so many that he’d had to get a second saddlebag to house them all, but this was something new.  Instead of a simple cover with just the austere lettering of the canticle title, this book featured a fully colored image of a maid in a long flowing gown held in the arms of a highly muscled man, their lips locked in a passionate kiss.

“Where did you get that?”

Cheeks flushing a delicate pink, she quickly pulled the book to her chest to shield the cover from his view.  “Sula gave it to me when we were in Redcliffe.”

Her embarrassment made him chuckle, which caused her blush to deepen.  “Are you enjoying it?”

“Oh, yes!” she breathily sighed.  “I’ve never read anything like it.”  She suddenly caught herself, her enthusiasm dying off abruptly, and she began shifting nervously.  “I … I mean … I don’t like it as much as the books you’ve given me. I … I just … that is …” Her shoulders dropped and her voice became muted and layered with anxiety.  “I should have asked you first if it was permitted. I … I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Evelyn lifted the book to him, her eyes reflecting regret and shame. “I will devote myself to studying the Chant from now on.”

It struck him quite suddenly that this was yet another moment when the two of them weren’t really able to understand each other.  She was taking the gifting of the canticles in a way he never intended! With a rueful wince, Cullen pointedly ignored the novel she tried to give him.  “It’s nice, isn’t it? Reading something different from what you normally do?”

The book was hesitantly lowered back to her lap.  “I … yes,” was her cautious reply.

He smiled gently, trying to reassure her.  “Then I’m glad Sula gave you a book you like.”

Evelyn murmured something he couldn’t quite hear and he could tell she was still uncertain.

“Please look at me.”  He waited until she reluctantly met his gaze.  “I made a mistake. When I gave you the Canticle of Transfigurations, you were so pleased with it that I continued to buy you copies of the other Canticles.  I never meant for you to think you were only permitted to read the Chant of Light. Evelyn, you may read anything you like. If a particular book takes your fancy, tell me and you shall have it.  Maybe Sula has suggestions for other novels you might enjoy. You should ask her.”

A jerky nod was her only reply.  The book was back to being clutched to her chest while she chewed worriedly on her lip.  He decided to let the conversation lapse into silence. He didn’t want to stress her by continuing it, and he wanted to allow her time to process his words.  Hopefully she would come to the conclusion he was being sincere.

For a time, Evelyn stared off into the distance, one hand idly brushing the hard surface of the novel.  Then it was back to resting on her lap, still unopened though. She gave him several surreptitious glances before finally parting the pages.  She was reserved at first, reading in short spurts, interspersed with furtive looks at him. Soon, though, she became captivated, her caution disappearing.

The display was muted, as it ever was when it involved her emotions and reactions, but it was amusing - fascinating really - watching as she lightly blushed and quietly sighed and grew excited while reading the book.  Yesterday he’d seen a different Evelyn from the young woman he had grown accustomed to, one who was fearless, brave, authoritative. Now he was observing yet another version of her. Light-hearted and unreserved. He found himself smiling when she did.  And the one time she softly giggled, it was a delight – light and airy, a beautiful musical note of joy. She didn’t read straight through as he expected, but would read a section and then flip back to read it again before progressing deeper into the tale.  Or she would turn to a particular part near the middle of the book, something she’d read so frequently the pages were ruffled from frequent fingering.

Following a short break for the nooning meal, Cullen was disappointed that the wind had picked up, making it impossible for Evelyn to continue reading.  She stared at the countryside for a time until boredom drove her to take a nap. Time seemed to crawl now that he had nothing to distract him other than the tedious beat of the soldiers’ march, the occasional grunting of a druffalo, and the rather dull scenery they were trekking through, until the weather lended some entertainment.  Evelyn looked so peaceful as she slept that he regretted waking her, but he did not want her to miss this experience. There was a disgruntled frown on her face as she rubbed her eyes. Then her mouth dropped open into a perfect “o” and her eyes rounded with wonderment. Her hand reached out, her palm facing up, trying to capture one of the fragile flecks of white.

“Is it snow?”  Her voice was full of awe.

When he answered, his tone was equally reverent.  “It is.”

Her head swiveled around, trying to take in everything at once, and she gave a delighted laugh.  “I’ve read about it, but I never thought I’d see it.”

Even if snow weren’t a rare occurrence in the north, Evelyn would never have seen it had she not fled the Circle.  Mages were rarely, if ever, permitted outside the thick, daunting walls. Had she grown up in Ferelden as he had, it likely would still have been an experience denied her, young as she was when her magic manifested.

Growing up in Honnleath, winter had been his favorite time of the year with its cold, invigorating air and the banks of snow for entertainment.  When he’d been the age Evelyn had been when she entered the Circle, his wintertime had been spent battling his siblings in brutal snowball fights, or sledding down the slopes of the hills, or searching out the biggest, deepest drifts so he could fall back into them.  His mother would bundle him up tight each morning, with strict instructions to not take off his coat, mittens, hat, and scarf. Barely pausing to give a dutiful nod, Cullen would sprint outdoors in wild abandonment, quickly discarding all the items. Once his father determined the pond was solid enough, skating on its smooth surface had been added to his daily activities.  His favorite memories from his childhood all seemed to center around wintertime, somehow.

Looking down at the mage still captivated by the snowfall, sadness stirred within him.  She’d never had a childhood, not a true one anyway. Never had the freedom to laugh and play and get covered in mud in her search for tadpoles.  Had she ever climbed a tree so she could stare in curiosity at hatching eggs? Had she ever sat in a field making flower crowns as Mia had? Were there nights she spent sleeping with her siblings in a hayloft to escape the brutal summer heat?  Did she even have siblings? She’d mentioned once about dreaming of being in a rowboat with a young boy, but she couldn’t even remember if they were related.

As a mage, Evelyn had been denied so much.  Basic life skills that most took for granted.  A sense of purpose. The comforting memories of having a loving family.  The happiness of a carefree childhood. Knowledge of any kind had been limited, but especially of the Chant to which she was so devoted. He couldn’t change her past, but he could try to undo some of its impact.  He’d already made some progress on that front. She had duties. She had access to every canticle he could get his hands on. She was learning, slowly, how to navigate through the complexities of the larger world she now found herself in.  And …

A small, pitiful voice interrupted his train of thought.

“How long is this going to last?”

Evelyn looked as miserable as she sounded with her runny nose, watering eyes, and her cold-reddened cheeks.  The wind had picked up so much that the heavy sheets of snow were flying parallel to the ground. Shivering violently, she wrapped the small fur on her lap over her head to keep the snowflakes from catching and melting into her hair.  She then took the sleeping fur covering his chest plate and added it atop the one already wrapped around her shoulders before huddling against him.

Cullen wrapped one arm around her, pulling her in tight, not that his hard armor could offer her any sort of warmth.  “The wind should die down around the time we set up camp.”

The wind did, indeed, die down when they finally stopped for the night, though the snow continued to steadily fall.  There’d be a good two feet of it to tramp through the next day, slowing their progress yet again. Wanting to give Evelyn some shelter from the bitter temperatures, he ordered his tent be erected immediately.  She, however, insisted on seeing to the needs of the injured first before seeking her own comfort. The moment she’d completed her rounds though, she asked permission to retire to his tent with a bowl of porridge and her romance novel.

Sula joined Cullen at the fire, handing over a fresh mug of tea before sitting down on one of the logs.  “I could beat you into a bloody pulp for not warning me about the fucking cold. If you had, I might have opted to stay in Kirkwall.”

Cullen snorted.  “No, you wouldn’t have.”

She threw him a sour look, and then snorted herself.  “No, I wouldn’t have, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to bitch about it every chance I get.”  She tossed her gauntlets to the side and held her hands up to the fire. “How’s Evelyn handling the weather?  I noticed she beat a hasty retreat tonight.”

“Like you, she’s finding she’s not fond of it, but I think her turning in early has less to do with the chill and more to do with the book you gave her.  Thank you for that, by the way. Evelyn is really enjoying it.”

A smug grin grew on Sula’s face.  “I knew she would. Even a girl as somber as Evelyn needs a bit of frivolity in her life.”  At his confused expression, she gave an overly dramatic sigh. “You really don’t understand women, do you?”

“Apparently,” he sardonically grumbled.  “Especially since you enjoy pointing it out so frequently.”

Her peaked eyebrow and sideways grin coaxed a reluctant chuckle from his lips.  Sula was speaking the truth. He really didn’t understand women, and Evelyn was proving to be particularly enigmatic.

“I’ll let you in on a secret, Cullen.   _ Plenty _ of women enjoy escaping into a romance novel – indulging in the fantasy of being kissed by a dark stranger in an exotic location is a popular one.”

“Even you?”  He should have known better than to try to get a playful jab in because she immediately turned it around on him.

Her eyes took on a steely edge.  “Yes. Even me. Though my fantasies tend to be more carnal in nature.  Shall I share some of my favorites?”

“Maker, no!  Just … no.” He coughed uncomfortably, blood rushed to his cheeks, and suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his hands.  A horrifying thought occurred to him. “The book you gave Evelyn. It’s not … that is … you didn’t get her anything too explicit, did you?”

She gave a hearty laugh.  “If it was, the book would be in my hands and not hers.  But have no fears. It’s tame by anyone’s standards.”

“Good.  That’s good,” he said with relief.  Not that he was a prude – though he avoided the topic of sex with Sula at all costs – he felt that Evelyn was not ready, and would likely never be ready.  Why would she? Her first exposure to sex, not that rape could even be remotely construed as sex, had been brutal and terrifying. The night of the ritual had scarred her, likely for life, and he could only blame himself for that.  He’d been so caught up in his own disgust that he hadn’t considered what his actions were doing to the mage he was Claiming. It gladdened him to know that at least it hadn’t damaged her to the point she couldn’t find some pleasure in the pages of a romance.  “Anyway, thank you again for giving Evelyn the book.”

“Of course.”  Sula grabbed her gauntlets and stood suddenly.  “I’m off to seek my furs. I’ve already had to look at your ugly mug for much too long today.  Sleep well, Cullen.”

“Sleep well, Sula.”

When Cullen entered his tent several bells later, the scene was as he predicted.  Evelyn asleep, her hair in its nightly braid, the novel laying open on her chest, and a vial of lyrium sitting atop the sleeping furs.  A violent anger rushed over him as he stuffed the tempting blue vial back into her pack as hastily as possible. Could she not count? Did she not realize he was no longer taking it? Why did she keep tempting him with it, when he was already so close to failure?

Taking a deep breath, Cullen realized he was being unfair. He had but to ask Evelyn not to leave a vial out for him, and she’d stop without question. The truth was that he didn’t want her to know, didn’t want her to realize he’d stopped, didn’t want her to think him less capable, less powerful. And he could hardly blame her for assuming he still dosed - why wouldn’t she? It was his issue to manage, not hers. Shuddering, he looked for a distraction, his eyes settling on the novel in her grasp. 

He carefully lifted the book from her light grip.  If he were a decent person, he’d put it away in her pack, respect her privacy and her belongings.  But he wasn’t feeling particularly decent in that moment. Evelyn was such a mystery to him and when reading it, she’d shown an aspect of herself that he would never have guess lurked behind her reticent temperament.  It wasn’t as if he were contemplating delving into her private journal and exposing all her secret, personal thoughts. It was a romance novel, one he could pick up anywhere. Cullen gave up trying to justify what he intended to do and just opened the book.

The plot was simple enough, involving the only daughter of a Bann and the Captain of the Guard.  From what he could tell, Evelyn was particularly fascinated with the process of courtship, given that the pages fell open naturally to every spot where the Captain complimented the maid with long, extravagant speeches about her beauty, wit, charm, and intelligence, or gifted her small, but highly meaningful presents.  Cullen felt the two pages the author had spent describing the first time they held hands to be excessive. Couldn’t he just say  _ and they held hands _ ?  Unable to hold off his curiosity any longer, he turned to the section that had so mesmerized Evelyn.  He read it and read it again and for good measure, read it a third time.  _ That’s interesting. _

~ooo~

The night air was crisp and bracing.  The ground covered in fresh snow. The moons full and heavy in the sky.  Cullen followed the path leading out of camp, leaving behind the tents and wagons and cookfires.  He was unsure of what was at the end of the trail, knowing only that he must press on. Dense shrubbery and trees sprang up around him, concealing what lay ahead.  He walked through a small break in the tree line, suddenly finding himself in a familiar place though nothing was distinct. The open space around him shimmering, mutable, shifting in and out of focus.  Behind him no longer a thick line of trees, but neat, open pastures. Ahead, more of the same. To the right, the small cottage he’d not seen since leaving for his Templar training. Its form fluid, adjusting and reshaping as fuzzy memories sprang forth with sharper details.

To his left, contrasting the ill-defined house and fields, the path continued on in sharp relief.  Every pebble, every cobbled stone, solid and firm. Snow began falling as he pushed on, compelled onward by a calling he couldn’t resist.  He sensed something was waiting for him, something that must be discovered. The small jetty on the edge of the pond came into view, easing his burdens and insecurities.  As a child, this had been his safe haven. A place to be alone with his thoughts. A place where he retreated to be free of his loud, rowdy siblings. A place where he could be himself, without judgement or censure.  Where he could imagine his future self – a Templar of the Order, confident and stalwart. A defender of all that was right and true.

For a heartbeat, a heavy veil of snow fell, a solid wall of white obscuring his view.  When it cleared, a figure could be seen standing on the berth. Cloaked and hooded, he could not make out who it was.  He stepped forward as the figure turned. Delicate hands pushed back the hood, and Evelyn was looking up at him. And it was as if he’d never really seen her before.  Of course, he had  _ seen  _ her.  How could he not, bound as they were to each other?  But there was something different about her now … or maybe it was he that was changed.

She smiled shyly at him, and he found himself entranced.  Her sharp cheeks a delicate pink, exactly matching the color of her full lips.  Lips that he had never tasted. Lips that demanded to be savored. Cullen leaned in, slowly, and to his surprise Evelyn tilted her head, rising up on her tiptoes, softly whispering his name before their lips met, sharing of their first kiss.  The taste of her was exquisite, tantalizing, something he would never get his fill of.

He had to have more.  Fingers twining in her hair, deepening the angle of her head, he gently nipped at her lips, urging her to grant him entrance.  Her mouth was opening, his tongue sliding in …

“Commander?”  From somewhere near his tent, Jim’s grating nasally voice intruded into his sleep.  “Commander Rutherford?”

Cullen considered ignoring him by rolling over and trying to slip back into his dream.

“Excuse me.  Do you know where the Commander is?”

A voice he didn’t recognize answered.  “Haven’t seen him this morning. Check his tent.”

“Yes, of course.  I should have thought of that.”

He heard scuffling outside his tent and Jim’s tentative voice intruded more deeply into his half-sleep.  “Commander?”

Cullen rolled out of the warm cocoon of sleeping furs, grumbling and unhappy, undid the ties holding the flaps closed, and pierced his idiot assistant with a withering glare.  “What?”

The scout swallowed nervously, holding out a sealed parchment in his quavering hand.  “Uh, urgent message from Haven, ser.”

He snatched the letter, impatiently ripping it open.  Skimming over the note from Cassandra, his grumpy mood worsened.  “Explain to the Lady Seeker, as I have frequently told her in my many replies already, that we are moving with all haste and  _ will _ be there before Most Holy’s arrival.”

“Y … yes, Commander!”  Jim gave him a sharp salute before bounding onto his horse and riding out of the camp with all haste.

Did Cassandra think he had a faulty memory?  Daily reminders that time was of the essence were unnecessary and he was already doing everything humanly possible to meet the looming deadline.

Lingering irritation was evident as he viciously tied close the flaps.  It seemed that the odd, though pleasant, start to his day was over. He had morning duties to see to, a still sleeping mage to awaken, and an army to get on the road.  Despite that, he simply was not ready to get started. The dream – kissing, and being kissed by, Evelyn … where had that come from? It had been so unlike his typical ones, and there was a sense of relief in being able to envision her as more than merely an object for his own gratification, but what did it mean?

His gaze fell upon her book, the one he had skimmed through before falling asleep.  He’d read the passage where the Captain of the Guard and the Bann’s daughter had met in a flower-filled garden and shared their first kiss.  The story must have influenced his dreams and given that Evelyn had been the last person he’d looked at before falling asleep, his mind had just substituted her in place of the novel’s heroine.  The explanation was as simple as that. Given their history, there was and never could be anything romantic between them.

~ooo~

Peculiar was the only way to describe the next several days.  It was as if everything had been knocked slightly off-kilter. His mind would drift, recalling in exacting detail the dream of kissing Evelyn on the pier by his childhood home and then he would come to, realizing that he’d been staring hungrily at her lips.  Each time, Cullen quickly averted his eyes, and would feel the heat growing in his face as he rubbed awkwardly at his neck.

The distance to Haven grew shorter, eagerness and anticipation spreading through the army and its officers.  Evelyn, too, was growing excited. He felt some disappointment when she put aside her novel and returned her attention to the many canticles in her growing library.  When she wasn’t nursing the wounded, she was pouring over the verses of the Chant, studying them with a new intensity. And when she wasn’t engaged in those activities, she was devoting herself to her duties as his secretary.  Fervor was the only way he could describe her behavior. She poured over every missive, every schedule delivered to him. It became the norm that he would find her asleep with not one of her many books in hand, but with stacks of reports from Cassandra and Leliana detailing the high-ranking Chantry, Templar and Mage representatives expected to attend or the Conclave agenda.  She even went so far as to detail Most Holy’s proposed itinerary. He’d pointed out that it wasn’t necessary – there were people in Haven doing the same thing who had access to more current information, but she persisted.

When they were just days out from Haven, Evelyn grew restless.  Even books failed to keep her attention for long. She fidgeted, positioning and repositioning herself on his lap until, with a great sigh, she asked permission to walk for a time inside the safety of the columns of soldiers.  She, who months ago barely had the stamina to make the daily trek, now finding it arduous to be idle for a few hours. It was impetuous, and probably not the wisest of decisions, but Cullen was feeling restive himself, so he signaled Sula before kicking his steed into a gallop.  At first, Evelyn was alarmed, her hands clutching fearfully on his arms, but when he steered the horse towards the rise of a high hill, her delighted laugh sounded and she leaned into the rushing wind as the ground sped by underneath.

When they reached the top of the hill, he pulled the horse to a stop.  Looking down to where Evelyn was now leaning against his chest, he laughed when she tilted her head back so that he was seeing her face upside down.

“That was wonderful,” she said, slightly breathless.  Her eyes were glittering with pleasure, her mouth lifted in a happy smile.

There was an ease between them in that moment that he was not yet ready to lose, so instead of heading immediately back to the safety of the army, he asked if she’d like to dismount for a moment and enjoy the view.  To his pleasure, she assented, and trustingly braced against him as he helped her to the ground. In silence, they beheld the beautiful vista spread in front of them. The flight of a flock of birds seized her awed attention while he studied the countryside.  Despite taking a moment from his duties as Commander of Most Holy’s army, he still found himself searching for an easier path to help speed their advancement. Cullen spotted a large farmstead, not too far distant from the highway they followed. They would be reaching the area in just a few bells, a perfect place to set up an early camp, if the homesteaders would be agreeable to permitting an army so close to their lands.

Remorsefully, he mounted the horse and held out his arm to assist her as she climbed on to his lap.  As soon as they rejoined the army, Cullen gathered Declan and his squadron and set out to the farm. It wouldn’t do well to have their forces show up on the farmers’ doorstep without giving fair warning.  They made good time now that they were not being hindered by the slower moving noncombatants and were at the homestead in little over a bell. His hackles immediately rose as they approached the farmhouse.  Even in the dead of winter there should be movements or, at the very least, smoke rising from the many fireplaces, but no one came forth at his call. He assigned several men to guard Evelyn and then ordered the rest to spread out to search the many buildings.

It was a sprawling farm, with a large main house complete with an attached winter kitchen.  A smoke house, several barns, a string of small cabins for the workers, a few store houses, multiple animal pens, a detached summer kitchen.  Cullen moved into the main stead, finding signs of a hasty departure. It wasn’t the first abandoned farm they’d come across – many Fereldans were retreating to the safety of their Banns’ holds, or even to Denerim, to escape the growing conflict between mages and Templars - not to mention opportunistic bandits such as those who had beset them on the road.  But usually, the farmers managed to secure their belongings before leaving – it looked as if these people had left with little but their livestock and the clothes on their back. The troops would still camp here tonight, but Cullen made a mental note to have Declan double the men on nightly patrol. Whoever or whatever had run the farmers off might still be in the area.

His impulse was to have Evelyn accompany him back to the army.  In that way he could be assured of her safety, but she was still restless and was beholding the homestead with a level of curiosity.  It wouldn’t be fair to force her to be inactive for bells just so he would not have cause to worry. He set Declan to working out where people would be bunking for the night – the injured, women, and elderly to get priority.  Evelyn’s instructions were to listen to Declan, run and hide at the first sign of trouble, and start inventorying any supplies or equipment they could use. She seemed to be surprised, but pleased he entrusted the duties to her.

The return to the farm took longer than expected.  One of the wheels on a wagon had broken and they’d spent laborious, backbreaking effort replacing it with a spare.  Declan was directing where everyone would be housed for the night. Those still suffering injuries from the bandits’ attack were assisted into the main house.  Women and the elderly assigned to the small workers’ cabins. A portion of the soldiers would bunk in the many barns, sleeping in the hay lofts. The majority though, including Cullen and Evelyn, were resigned to yet another night in tents. Cullen wished he could have offered her a more comfortable bed, travel-weary as she was, though he knew she would never complain. When he’d wrapped up his preliminary duties, he headed to the farm house to collect his mage, who was not tending the injured as he expected. 

He threw a questioning look at Declan who pointed towards the detached kitchen.  Given all the organized chaos with setting up for the night, it was no surprise Evelyn had retreated to the building for some seclusion.  He ambled over to the structure, pausing when he reached the open door, delighted by what he found.

Evelyn was sitting in front of a roaring hearth, her legs bent gracefully to the side, her bare feet peeking out of a long skirt.  She had changed into a faded frock and was rubbing the ends of her damp hair with a drying sheet. It struck him that in all the time they’d been together, he’d never seen her hair unbound, nor had he ever heard her merrily humming as she was now.

He leaned against the door frame, loosely crossing his arms, enjoying seeing her so at ease.

Her head turned, catching him watching.  She rose hastily, nervously running her hands over the rough fabric of the gown.  “I’m sorry. I … I didn’t realize so much time had passed. I should … I should go help …”

“It’s cozy in here.” he interjected.  Cullen looked around the kitchen, at the cheery fire, at the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the beams, at the bright curtains covering the wide window.  “And quiet.”

There was a relieved sigh when she replied, “Yes.”  It wasn’t easy for her, being surrounded by people all the time, constantly on guard.  No wonder she had retreated to the small structure for a moment of peace. For a heartbeat she relaxed, with no sign of tension or concern, but as she looked around the kitchen, her apprehension began growing.

It made no sense and hoping to divert her from whatever was concerning her, he said, “That’s a pretty dress.”  It wasn’t really. What once had probably been a lovely blue was now faded to drab grey, giving her complexion a washed-out appearance.  The frock was too big for her, pooling on the floor around her feet, the sleeves so long that only her fingertips showed, and it was much too loose around her hips.  In contrast, the bodice was too tight, her cleavage close to spilling out of the fabric confines. Realizing he was staring at her chest, he ripped his gaze up only to have it fall on her full lips which recalled the dream of kissing her.

At the compliment, she gave the slightest hint of a pleased smile as she smoothed down the skirt, but there was also growing nervousness from his attention.

He rubbed clumsily at the back of his neck, trying to find something to look at that wasn’t her bosom or her lips, bouncing from object to object in the kitchen.  In contrast, her eyes were unmoving from the space between their feet. Her fretfulness continued to grow and there was a tremor in her voice when she finally spoke.  “I did something that I now realize you might not approve of. I’m sorry. I should have asked first.” Her only form of explanation was to point to the wide opening opposite the cooking hearth.

Instead of questioning her, he walked over, peering into a large, well-stocked pantry and began chuckling.  “That’s not something one expects to find in a storeroom.”

She stuttered, unable to speak for a heartbeat.  “You’re the Commander. You shouldn’t have to sleep in a tent when there are better options available.”

It was a tight squeeze, but somehow a thick, comfy-looking mattress had been jammed in amongst shelves full of jarred fruits and vegetables and sacks of flour and oats.  Still chuckling, he asked, “How did you manage this?”

Shame-faced, she muttered, “I … I asked Declan to get some of the men to move it in here.  I … I just thought it would be warm, and protected from the wind, and you’d sleep better in here than in the tent, and …”

“And you thought it would be better to ask forgiveness than permission,” he joked.

It was the absolutely worst tack he could have taken.  She looked mortified, fretfully twisting the drying sheet in her hand.

“Evelyn, I’m teasing.”  He gave an approving nod towards the pantry.  “This is an excellent idea. I’m glad you thought of it.”

“Truly?  You aren’t angry?”

“No, I’m not upset.”  With a teasing grin, he continued, “After all, my little general won’t be happy if she’s forced to do without the available creature comforts.”

Her tension melting away, she actually laughed and smiled up at him.  “There’s other benefits too,” she announced while leading him over to a wide table set near the cooking fire.

Picking up a potato, his mouth was already watering seeing the smoked ham, bunch of carrots, large potatoes, and jars of pickled vegetables.

“I thought we might have our meal in here tonight.  Unless you’d prefer to eat with the others. I hear mashed turnips is on the menu.”

It took him a heartbeat to realize she was teasing him, which made his belly chortle all the more gratifying.  “ _ Anything _ but that.”  Putting down the spud, he couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice when he asked, “You know how to cook?”

“I …,” her faced flushed.  “No, but I’ve watched the others and I think I can manage.”

“Or we could prepare dinner together.”  He was enjoying being with Evelyn, delighting in the comfort that swirled around them now that her concerns had been addressed, and he was looking for any reason to extend their time together.

Flushing daintily, she demurely nodded.  “I’d like that.”

The cooking of the meal went well, the dining of it even better.  For once, conversation flowed easily between them. They spoke of the men, and the journey, and the tribulations of travel.  Evelyn was positively chatty by the reserved standards she usually set, agreeing with Cullen’s observations and occasionally offering her own.  She smiled more than he could remember seeing and a few times she even laughed. Her ease in his presence felt like a fortuitous and welcome balm; it was an unexpected comfort that he didn’t realize he needed until he received it.  The time passed too quickly and it was with regret he helped carry the dishes to the wash basin. His duties were calling and this brief respite they’d managed to carve out was coming to an end. He stood next to her at the wash station, knowing he should take his leave but reluctant to do it.

Evelyn kept glancing up towards him and then down, off to the side, and Cullen realized he’d moved close to her, closer than he normally stood.  She was nervous, but not fearfully so, he observed. Fidgeting, her hands at first clasping together before plucking at the dress that was too large for her.  His eyes slid up the gown, pausing when he came to the close fitting bodice. A blush spread along her high cheeks, nearly the same color as her full lips.

Her hands rose, grabbing her hair and began twisting into an austere bun.  His hand quickly covered hers. “Your hair. It looks fetching when you wear it down.”

How had he never noticed how lovely her hair was?  He’d always thought it a dull brown, but holding out a thick lock, he could see glints of golds and reds.  It was silky, thick. And it did look fetching, falling in lush waves along her face, over her shoulders and down her back.  Evelyn would never be a stunning beauty, but without her tresses trapped in a severe style, her features seemed softer, more appealing.

Her blush deepened, her hands dropping clumsily to her side.

Cullen realized he’d move closer still, just a hairsbreadth from touching her.  Her eyes continued nervously jumping around, from his face to his chest to the open doorway to the large table at her side, but each time she beheld his face, her gaze lingered a heartbeat longer until they were staring into each other’s eyes.  The tip of her tongue sneaked out, lightly moistening her lips. And as with his dream of kissing her on the dock, he no longer had the will to wait.

He found himself leaning down, slowly as to give her a way out if his advance was not welcomed.  She made no move to back away, though she also made no move towards him, simply waiting, her eyes locked on his lips.  He could feel her soft breath on his face. His mouth was a hairsbreadth from hers. Their lips about to meet …

“Commander.”  Jim’s irritating voice intruded.  “More messages from Haven.”

Cullen pulled away from Evelyn, piercing his assistant with a potent glare for the unwanted interruption.  “Not. Now,” he snarled.

The scout looked first at the former Templar and then at the Claimed mage, his face flushing with embarrassment.  Glancing at the thick handful of parchments he was holding, he backed away quickly from the doorway with a gulp. “These can wait,” he sputtered.

Cullen turned back, ready to pick up where he’d left off, only to find Evelyn had moved to the other side of the room, as far from his reach as she could.  A cold wash of shame rushed over him as he realized that not only did Evelyn have no wish to pick up where they’d left off, she quite possibly had had no wish to kiss him in the first place.  She wasn’t looking at him, busying herself with the dishes, her cheeks flushed but without the charming smile in the corner of her mouth that had enchanted him all evening. He’d have to thank Jim for disrupting before he could cross a line that shouldn’t even be approached.

Even to himself, his voice sounded strained.  “I have to go work with the soldiers. I’ll see you later.”

Once the training session ended, he lingered outside, finding things to do, people to speak to, anything to delay his return to the kitchen.  Only once he knew Evelyn would be fast asleep did he enter the building. He removed his armor as quietly as he could before padding into the storeroom.  As expected, Evelyn was asleep. Unexpected, though, was that her hair was still loose and he reflected again on how fetching it looked unbound.

_ Did she do that for me?  Does she want me after all? _

Cullen quickly quashed the thought.  Evelyn might enjoy reading about kissing, but she’d made it pretty clear that he wasn’t part of her fantasy.  And he had no business even trying. As a Claimed, she was powerless to deny him anything, even an innocent kiss.  Of course, nothing could ever be innocent between them and that made him terribly sad. With a heavy sigh, Cullen settled on the mattress next to her, no longer looking forward to a night of comfortable sleep, weighed down by regret and guilt.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the new character introduced in this chapter. A little birdie (a bushviper actually) has told me that there is a story in the works based in the Claimed ‘verse featuring Knight-Commander Marcus Harcourt. I’ve had a brief glimpse and it’s a fascinating tale that I think readers of Claimed will enjoy … or at least they will once the author feels it’s ready for posting.  
> And, as ever, my thanks to bushviper for her massive assistance with this chapter. It turned into a truly collaborative effort -- more cowriters than writer and beta reader. She deserves to be added as an actual cowriter but refuses to allow this, so instead she has my eternal thanks for all her help and hand-holding.

Cullen could barely keep his impatience in check.  The Frostback Mountains loomed high above as they navigated the steep, winding path towards Haven but finally, after a near-year long trek, they were close to journey’s end.  Just one more sunrise need pass until he would be standing in the shadows of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  He hoped Evelyn was being mindful of her steps rather than craning her neck for any sightings of its towering spires through breaks in the rocky range.

Sula gave an exasperated sigh as he, for what seemed like the hundredth time since they had broken camp, looked over his shoulder at the people trailing behind them.  “If you’re so worried, ride back and see how she’s doing.”

Ignoring her, Cullen continued to scan through the ranks, past the fluttering banners proclaiming that here marched Most Holy’s army, hoping to catch even the slightest glimpse of the young woman.  Finding none, he returned his attention to the road ahead, his sullen mood becoming more so.  It was for the best, having her walk alongside the other noncombatants between the lines of soldiers, but he found himself missing her presence.

It wasn’t just her presence he missed.  He missed the relaxed, comfortable peace they had managed to capture, even if it had lasted only a few bells.  The night at the farm, where they had dined together in the kitchen, had been such a welcome respite.  They had each been more open, chatting easily, enjoying the other’s company.  Evelyn had even gone so far as to tease him.

And he had gone and mucked it all up.  Why had he tried to kiss her?  He wasn’t attracted to her, not really.  There was nothing between them, nor ever could be.  Particularly not now.  The tension and discomfort that had been ever-present in their early days had returned with full force.  He couldn’t keep from rubbing awkwardly at his neck and she would look at any available object save him.  The few conversations they’d managed were stuttered and tense.  So, it was a great relief for both of them when he had rescinded his requirement that she ride with him each day.

Behind him stretched the long lines of soldiers, marching to either side of the wagons, merchants, pilgrims, and his mage.  By his side Sula was scanning the rugged landscape for any sign of trouble. Haven might be just that – a sanctuary for the disputing sides to meet and negotiate – but the paths leading to it were fraught with dangers.  Mages and Templars were not bound by Conclave’s truce until they reached the town’s gates.  Until then, any they came upon could be friend or foe.

It was nearing evening and they were approaching the one spot on the winding path that offered enough room for the army to camp that night.  But when they arrived, they found it already occupied by a rather large group.  A worrisomely large one – nearly half the number of his army.  He was unprepared, though the same could not be said of the strangers.

They were gathered in the immense niche, far back from the road, their backs protected by the tall mountain.  In the center, bunched tightly together, were a mass of Tranquil and terrified apprentices.  Spanning in a protective half-circle around them were Knights-Templar, all armed and dangerous.  Positioned between the Templars, equal in numbers to their knight protectors, ranged harrowed mages, their stances defensive, their expressions fiercely determined.  To the fore of the group stood two Templar officers and a Knight-Commander.

To a one, the Templars held drawn swords, though the weapons were carefully pointed to the ground, ready for any menace but trying to not provoke an attack.  The same could not be said of the mages.  The very air sizzled with their gathering power.  Licks of flame, of ice, of electricity could be seen on their hands.  Cullen had thought by abstaining from lyrium for so long that his sensitivity to magic would become blunted, but his body was more attuned to the swirling power than ever.  It pounded him relentlessly.  His head felt as if it were being crushed in a vice.  His bones pulsated from the force.  Even his teeth were itching.  Were he taking lyrium, were he at full strength, he would still have no hope of standing long before so many mages.  One mage could take out a squadron without effort; his army stood no chance against the assembly he was currently facing.

Cullen’s hand flew to the hilt of the sword strapped to his side.  Sula, too, prepared herself for a potential fight as did the soldiers directly behind them.  Before the situation could escalate into full conflict, the Knight-Commander stepped away from the group, approaching Cullen not in defiance, nor even in aggression.  He was a tall man and broad through the chest, a mountain of a man, with olive skin and dark wavy hair.  Studying Cullen’s face with a cock of his head, the officer sheathed his sword.  Behind him the unknown Templars and mages relaxed – though remained wary.  Cullen stayed on guard, keeping one careful eye on the Knight-Commander and the other on the line of mages lest this be a trick of some sort.

The Templar’s voice was thick with a Starkhaven burr when he introduced himself.  “Marcus Harcourt, Knight-Commander of Jainen.  My men and I are escorting these mages to Conclave.  I need not ask who you are, Rutherford, Commander of Most Holy’s army.”  There was a twinkle in his eyes and a roguish grin on his face when he added, “The posters are a good likeness.”

Cullen scowled.  It was a presumptuous jest from a man he’d just met – but the real fault lied with Jim and his ridiculous recruitment posters.  He made a mental note to assign his aide to the evening latrine duties for an indeterminate length of time.  Turning his attention back to the man before him, he realized it wasn’t the first time he’d heard the name Harcourt.  Rylen had served with this man in Starkhaven until fire destroyed the Circle, and Cullen’s friend had had only praise for his former superior officer – dedicated, fair-minded, demanding his men treat their charges with a firm but respectful hand.

None of that mattered now.  A single mage was dangerous enough, but he was facing close to two dozen.  He had to put some distance between the mages and his soldiers, and he had to get his army intact to Haven.  Better to march all night than take a risk with the unknown mages.  “We did not realize this space was already occupied.  We will be on our way.”

Harcourt looked pointedly at the sun which was quickly dipping towards the horizon.  “The day is near over, and you may not find a spot farther on to house your men before the sun sets.  There is no reason both our parties cannot share the space this evening.”

Cullen’s scowl grew.  He wanted to argue, but there was truth in the Knight-Commander’s words even if it meant sharing a campsite with a large group of mages.  Still, the idea made him uneasy.

Sensing his disquiet, Marcus proposed, “You can make camp near us, not too close, but close enough that our combined numbers will scare off even the most determined troublemakers.”

It was a sound plan, one that he might have proposed himself under different circumstances, yet he hesitated to give his agreement.

Finally, with an irritated growl, Sula snapped, “For fuck’s sake, Cullen.  Accept the offer.  If they wished us harm, we’d already be tomorrow’s burnt toast.”

Setting up camp was a tense affair.  What had seemed a more than wide enough expanse quickly became cramped as soldiers and wagons rolled into the space.  He had difficulty keeping a clear line of demarcation between his army and Marcus’ group.  The first thing he did was order his tent be erected.  Not only did he have his concerns about what the mages might do, but he feared how these unknown Templars might react to and treat his Claimed mage.  Evelyn had been safe enough among the army.  Most had seen how hard she worked to care for the injured, and they respected her for her diligence and compassion, but would these new Templars?  The Grand Cleric in Amaranthine had attacked Evelyn at the first opportunity, seeing only the collar around her throat and not the innocent mage beneath it.  Would these Templars be the same?  Would they blame her for her predicament, without reason or understanding?  Would they scorn her, spit upon her, call her a whore, as the people of Amaranthine had done?  Not wanting to risk another ugly scene, Cullen felt it would be best for her sake if she stayed out of sight as much as possible.

While he awaited her arrival at the campsite, Cullen decided to check out Harcourt’s group to assure himself that the mages were being properly contained.  Which they weren’t in his estimation.  It was obvious they had a finely tuned routine, with a friendly camaraderie as mages and Templars equally shared the burden of cooking meals, erecting tents and distributing supplies.  It seemed more a partnership than guards and the guarded.  And that unnerved him even more, as did watching the mages freely using their magic to light campfires and braziers.

When she finally arrived, Evelyn was more nervous than usual, and for that he couldn’t blame her.  He was equally unsettled.  Obviously, word of the Templars had already reached her.  Her gaze bounced around, trying to track all the activity, jumping with every sound.  He’d honestly never seen her so anxious and wanted to do whatever he could to lessen her fears.

He stepped across her path as she headed for the sick wagon, gently grasping her elbow.  “I know you wish to attend to your patients but permit someone else see to their needs tonight.  Retire to my tent and I will have someone bring you supper when it’s ready.”

She looked up at him and then over to where the wounded were being helped down from the wagon.  “If you’ll permit _me_ , I’d rather see to them myself.  But would you stay close by?” she shyly asked.

He was heartened that she sought his company, even with the lingering awkwardness since his failed attempt at kissing her.  “Of course I will. For as long as you like.”

While Evelyn helped to settle the wounded and inspect their bandages, Cullen stayed close, standing guard as she worked.  She had just climbed into the wagon when he spotted Harcourt fast approaching.  Not wanting the Knight-Commander to get near the mage, he sprinted over to the man.

“Harcourt.  A word if you will.”  Cullen floundered for a heartbeat, searching for any topic to distract the Knight-Commander’s attention away from where Evelyn was working.  “Are there any supplies that you lack?  We have plenty to spare if you do.”

“No, we are well provisioned.”  There was no note of pride when he declared this, but rather, Cullen sensed an air of great regret from the Knight-Commander.  “When word of Conclave reached us, and after considerable debate, we voted to abandon Jainen Circle.  There was ample time to plan, and to gather necessary provisions.”

Even with his decision to quit the Order, Cullen felt a surge of jealousy.  Unlike him, Harcourt had managed to not only keep his Templars from deserting in this time of great strife, but to keep the Jainen mages alive and safe as well.  They, mage and Templar, had worked together in partnership, spanned the great breadth of Thedas, and were one mere day from arriving at their destination.  His Templars had not revolted.  His mages had not been slaughtered to a one.  His Order had not …

“There is a Claimed in your numbers?”  Harcourt’s voice was choked and strained.

Cullen followed his line of sight, his gaze falling on Evelyn as she assisted a man with a broken leg down from the wagon.

A flash of profound grief appeared on the Knight-Commander’s features as he studied the mage.  His voice dripped with disapproval when he finally asked, “To whom does she belong?”

There was no denying the truth, nor even a reason to try to defend himself for enslaving Evelyn, so he simply said, “To me.”

Harcourt’s hand shifted to the grip of his sword, his face becoming a mask of cold anger, and his voice civil but clipped as he loudly proclaimed, “For the record, Rutherford, the Jainen mages are off-limits.  If any of you try to Claim one, you’ll have to go through me and my men … that is, if the mages don’t roast you first.  Be sure to keep your men to your side of the camp and I will do the same.  We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

His threat issued, Marcus stalked off, leaving a shocked Cullen in his wake.  It had never occurred to him, with all his worries about the new group, that there might be a countering fear that he - or Sula or Declan - would attempt to Claim any of the Jainen mages.  The charge was unfair.  Harcourt didn’t know the circumstance of Evelyn’s Claiming, didn’t know Cullen’s heart and mind over the issue, didn’t know the lingering guilt he felt about enslaving her or how he’d treated her at the beginning.  Anger began to replace the shock, and he had an impulse to follow the Knight-Commander, to defend himself against the charges laid!  But Evelyn’s needs came before his own desire to redeem himself in the eyes of another, and so, with effort, he let the rage go and waited until she completed her duties.

Though his men quickly settled down, Cullen spent an apprehensive evening, jumping at every crackle and hiss of the campfire, his gaze constantly drawn to where the large contingent of mages were encamped.  Harcourt had been true to his word and kept his men and their charges carefully corralled within the space allotted them, and Cullen had done the same, though Declan had quickly tired of his frequent reminders – to patrol carefully, to stay with the boundaries, to stay alert for mage activities – until the usually easy-going man finally insisted it was time for his Commander to seek his furs.

Cullen entered the tent to find Evelyn in an uneasy slumber, tossing restlessly, faintly murmuring words he could not make out – but the edge of fear in her voice was plain enough.  As if sensing his presence, and somehow taking comfort from it, she settled, falling into a deep rest.  If only he could find peace enough to so easily to join her in the Fade.

It had been a year since he’d been around spell-casting mages, longer yet since facing ones from outside Kirkwall’s Circle.  He’d known this day would come, when he would have to engage with mages from all corners of Thedas attending the Conclave, but he’d thought he’d be better prepared.  That he would manage to set aside his fears and anxieties and prejudices.  And yet here he was, cowering in fear, worrying at every shadow, distressed by every sound.  Gone was the man who was once considered one of the bravest, strongest Templars in the Gallows.  It was a title he could no longer claim. He’d thrown down his sword, had renounced his vows, had stopped partaking of the very liquid which granted him such strength, power, and speed.  All that was left was a pathetic, mewling weakling.

His gaze fell once again on the young woman so trustingly sleeping in his furs, anguish growing that he no longer had the vigor and capability to defend her should the need arise.  The Chantry may view her as nothing but chattel – a possession, even a reward for his service – but Cullen felt differently now, after all these months with Evelyn at his side.  In his eyes, she was his responsibility.  Nay, not responsibility but _duty_.  He was honor-bound to keep her safe and secure against all threats.  How could he do that in his current state?  If the mages attacked in the night, if the Templars proved to be dishonorable, he’d be as helpless as Evelyn to fight them off.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to shift to what he’d avoided looking at since entering the tent.  The vial glowed, casting the space in the most beautiful blue aura, and it called to him as never before.  And his resolve to abstain melted away.  Surely, this was cause enough to take it. Just this once and never again.  Just until they reached the security of Haven’s gates.

The last time he’d struggled against its lure he had unconsciously pulled the stopper from the draught.  This time it was purposeful.  The heady scent surrounded him, his blood speeding in anticipation of the rush of icy power.  He tipped the vial, awaiting the first drop falling on his tongue, before abruptly lowering it.  No, he would not take it now.  There was no need … yet.  But he would keep it close, not in Evelyn’s pack but clenched in his fist … just in case the mages did attack in the middle of the night.  He pushed the stopper into place and wrapped firm fingers around the draught.

Sleep was fleeting that night.  Between nightmares of Kinloch and of Kirkwall and waking frequently to check that he still held the lyrium, his slumber was anything but restful.  Even when the sun rose, and the night was proven to be undisturbed by spellcasting, Cullen found he could not let go of the poisonous vial.  He needed the comfort of having it safely housed in the pouch he wore on his sword belt, and even went so far to pat it frequently, assuring himself that it was still there.

The morning was its usual organized bedlam with hastily eaten meals, breaking down of tents, dousing of campfires, and loading of wagons.  Cullen’s head was pounding, his nerves raw – from the noise, from the lack of sleep, from the unrelenting worries about the group from Jainen.  The army was ready in record time, perhaps picking up on their Commander’s growing agitation.

He had decided, even if she objected, that for Evelyn’s safety, she would not be marching with the others for the last leg of the journey.  She’d only have to endure his company for a few short bells. Once they were within the security of Haven’s walls, other measures, ones that did not involve her required attendance at his side, would be taken.  But for now, she was riding with him, or would be if she ever finished her morning check of her patients.

Having no choice but to hurry her along, he headed over to the wagon where he knew she was working.  As he expected, she was there, kneeling down as she tended a man with a broken leg.  Unexpectedly, she had gained an assistant.  Cullen had a slight impression of a youthful face with pointed ears and a shock of ginger hair, but what struck him most was the strong surge of magic emanating from the elven man.  Skin prickling, he fought against rising alarm.  Fought against the urge to draw his sword and hold it threateningly at the elf.  The mage was close to Evelyn, far too close for his comfort.  If hostilities broke out, she would be an easy target.

Somehow, there was no evidence of his fear when he called out, “Evelyn, come here.”

At the same time, he heard Harcourt’s heavily accented voice yelling, “Varalen!  What are you doing?”

“Healing this man’s leg,” was the youth’s slightly petulant response.  Implied in the tone along with the obvious eye roll was _what does it look like I’m doing?_

While the elf continued to cast his spell, Evelyn straightened, standing with perfect posture, her head obediently bowed, her hands folded together, and her face an unreadable mask -- the epitome of the perfect, submissive, docile Circle mage.  Harcourt’s stride faltered.  His expression, at first, one of sympathy and concern as he spied the Claimed mage, before turning into a censorious glare at the man who held her in bondage.

Finally, Harcourt turned his attention to his rebellious charge.  “You were told to stay in our camp,” he admonished the young man.

Varalen shrugged his shoulders, continuing to release his magic into the injured man before him.  “I was bored, and it turned out Evelyn here needed my help.  She heals with herbs, which isn’t much good for knitting broken bones together.”  The magic cut off, and the young mage smiled broadly at the man he’d been working on.  “All done.  We’ll need to put the splint back on for now and you’ll need to wait until after the nooning to put any weight on it, but you’ll be good as new after that.”

Cullen frowned, as did Harcourt.  Neither pleased with the situation.  Varalen looked confused and Evelyn maintained her careful mask, but Cullen could tell she was beginning to grow uncomfortable.

“If you are finished now, Varalen, we’d best be back to our group.  Remember, it is not safe for you to walk among _these_ Templars.”  His voice and his manner clearly conveyed his disdain, and Cullen glared at him indignantly.

The elven mage gave Evelyn a sad smile and a little wave of goodbye before blurting out, “Would you travel with us today?  You can finish telling me about how to use birch fungus to fight infections.”

“Varalen, hush!” Harcourt barked.

Cullen was surprised by the invitation, but even more so he was surprised by Evelyn’s reaction.  He would have thought she’d be pleased to spend time with Varalen.  They were of a similar age, both healers as well as mages.  Wouldn’t she want to spend time with others of her kind?  Though the very thought of her being surrounded by the Jainen mages made his blood run cold.  

And it seemed that she felt the same.  From the moment Harcourt had approached, Evelyn had reverted to hiding behind her impenetrable mask, but Cullen had months of practice seeing beyond it.  She was frightened.  That was clear enough for him to perceive. Her eyes were slightly rounded. She was trembling.  Her scarred hand had disappeared into the folds of her tunic.  Did she share his fear of being around mages?  Or was it the idea of traveling with so many Templars?

It didn’t matter the cause.  Evelyn was afraid and that he would not permit.  “I’m sorry.  That will not be poss …”

“Of course it won’t,” the Knight-Commander interrupted, his deep voice roughening with disapproval.  “It’s not her choice to make, Varalen.  This mage is clearly under Orders.”  More quietly, but not so much Cullen couldn’t hear his unfair accusation, he added, “And under the heavy heel of this Templar’s boot, poor lass.”  Harcourt’s righteous glower softened to a pitying frown as he glanced Evelyn.  He opened his mouth as if to say something to her, but then seemed to think better of it, instead beckoning to the young elf.  “Come, lad. It’s time to pack up and move out.”

Silence reigned as the Templar departed with Varalen trailing close behind.  Cullen watched them stomp off with narrowed eyes, thoroughly displeased with the Templar’s presumption.  Harcourt ventured too far, to assume he knew the reason Cullen had declined the elf’s offer.  To assume it was because he wanted to keep Evelyn firmly under his control.  Who was he to judge him?  He didn’t know Cullen.  More importantly, he didn’t know Evelyn.  He couldn’t see her distress, her fear, but Cullen could.  He’d only been trying to do the best for her, to make her feel safe – but he’d ended up condemned for it.

Turning his attention back to the young mage, he could tell she was still nervous.  Even though her focus had returned to her patient, she kept glancing towards the Jainen contingent as she cautiously worked at rebinding the splint to her patient’s leg.  Giving a small frown, she cocked her head up at him.  “Would you get some of your men to lift him into the wagon?  At this stage in the healing process, we can’t risk even the slightest jarring to the bone.”

“Of course.”  He signaled to a few of the nearby soldiers and between them they managed to maneuver the man into the wagon’s bed, somewhat hindered by Evelyn’s fluttering hands and constant admonishments to be careful.

Not satisfied with simply loading her patient in the wagon for transport, she gathered a huge pile of sleeping furs, shaping and reshaping them until the man’s leg was cushioned from underneath and both sides.  Still she fretted, biting on her bottom lip, continuing to test the bindings and pushing around the furs to her satisfaction.

It was a test of his patience to not snap at her.  Irritation lingered because of Harcourt’s accusations and having to wait for Evelyn to complete her tasks wasn’t helping.  They should have already been on the road, marching their way to Haven.  Instead he was cooling his heels, dawdling until he could tell her that she would be riding with him.

And then Harcourt’s condemnations came back to him – that Evelyn was under his thumb.  The fury that had been raging cooled and died away, replaced by a swelling of shame.  He could no longer deny that there was some truth to the man’s accusations.  Had Cullen not sought out Evelyn to tell her that she must spend the day riding with him – with no intention of asking what she desired?  He may not be as heavy-handed as the Templar charged, but wasn’t what he’d been doing also unfair, giving her no say in where she went and what she did?

Realizing his mistake, Cullen walked over to where Evelyn was still fussing over her patient.  “Would you like to stay with him?”

“I … yes,” she said with a relieved nod.  “I should stay with him for the time being.”

His smile was weak, for he was disappointed.  Even with the ongoing tension between them, he would have liked to spend the day with her.  So they parted company, he to take the lead of the army and she to see to her duties as healer.

Sula was already mounted when he joined her.  It wasn’t hard to figure out that she was livid – her stony expression and tightly clenched jaw were pretty big clues.  Wisely, he decided to not inquire. Years of friendship had taught him to wait until she was ready to talk, especially with her as incensed as she was at the moment.  They’d barely started the soldiers marching when Sula snarled, “Fuck him!”

“Who?”

Her cheek twitching with agitation, she growled, “That … that … sanctimonious prig.  Ser ‘stick up his ass’ Harcourt!”  Even though she knew she couldn’t catch sight of the Jainen group trailing behind the army, Sula turned to throw a baleful glare over her shoulder.  “Can you believe the nerve of him?”

“Not really.”  Cullen had his own issues with the man, to be sure, and he was curious why Sula had grief with him as well.  “What did he do?”

“Drew his sword on me!  All I did was walk over this morning for a bit of a chat and as soon as I got close, he started threatening me.  Me!  A fellow Templar!”  Her scowl deepened and she twisted again to glare behind her.  “Said if I was on the prowl for a mage to Claim, I’d best look elsewhere.”

“He threatened you, too?”

“He did.”  Her gaze bounced over to him.  “Wait.  You said _too_.  He dared to threaten you as well?”

Cullen grunted, the anger from before returning with full force.  “Last night, after he saw Evelyn.”

“So because one of us has a Claimed, all of us want one?  Is that his thinking?  Has he forgotten that we’re are Templars too?  We’re his _allies,_ his comrades in arms, but he acts as if we’re the _enemy_!”  Sula lapsed into a sullen silence for a while, but eventually, the thunder on her brow cleared.  Turning her gaze to the sky, she implored, “Andraste, give me the serenity to accept uptight Templars, the courage to knock them down a peg whenever possible, and the wisdom to make a fast getaway afterwards.”  She closed her eyes, taking a few calming breaths.  “There’s a story there, to be sure, but fuck if I can be bothered to care.”

Cullen had to admire her.  Though Sula’s anger flared often, it usually burned out quickly and she was mostly able to put whatever vexed her aside easily enough.  Whereas he fumed and stewed and let the emotions fester.  If only he could so easily dismiss the disapproving Knight-Commander and his unwarranted accusations from his thoughts.  As a Templar, Harcourt knew Chantry law was unmoving on the issue of apostates.  There were no exceptions.  There were no concessions.  There were no compromises.  If a Templar came upon an apostate, there was only three possible outcomes for the mage in question:  Death.  Tranquility.  Claimed.

Harcourt knew this and yet still felt he could sit in judgment?  Particularly when he never bothered to question Cullen’s heart about the matter?  It was true, in the beginning days, he had not been as kind as he should.  That he had treated Evelyn terribly and harshly.  But those days were over.  He’d never wanted a Claimed, but fate thrust one into his hands.  Yet he’d never acted on the “privileges” that having one accorded him.  Never forced her into his bed.  In fact, it was _Evelyn_ who suggested they share a bed in Amaranthine.  And it was _Evelyn_ who, on their first night on the road and every night since, without prompt or request, headed unerringly towards his tent with her possessions.  While Templars with Claimed mages were encouraged by the Chantry to take advantage as their due right, Cullen had made no untoward moves upon her.

Except, realizing with a wince, that he had.  It was a moment of painful reflection.  In their relationship, Cullen held all the power and Evelyn none.  Which made his outwardly innocent attempt to kiss her seem sinister in retrospect.  She couldn’t refuse him even if she wanted … and she’d probably wanted given how quickly she’d moved away.  Other than that one misstep, a mistake he vowed to never repeat, his conscience was mostly clear.

Harcourt was seeing only what he wanted when he looked at the Claimed mage.  He couldn’t see the growth in her that Cullen did.  She had changed so much in so many ways.  The person who once couldn’t bring herself to ask for clean clothes comfortable collecting for herself whatever she needed.  The mage who had doubted herself in everything taking charge in the aftermath of a battle.  The woman who once mumbled her way through stilted conversation now teasing him.  How dare this Marcus Harcourt make assumptions about him and about Evelyn with not one fact to back them.

Cullen kept stewing, working himself into a lather, so that when the nooning break came, he sought out Harcourt, wanting to give him a piece of his mind.  He stalked down the long line of soldiers sitting where they could on the trail, eating their meager meals, and then past the large gap between his army and the Jainen group.  The Knight-Commander was not with them, but rather standing apart on a small outcropping.

He wasn’t looking at the incredible vista, nor studying the path that lied ahead, nor even watching to see if any of the filthy Kirkwall Templars were on the hunt for fresh mage meat.  Instead his head was bent, with a wistful and melancholy expression as he studied a small rock held in his palm.  Not one of the rough and craggy ones so plentiful on their trail but one that was smooth and somewhat polished, like one would find in a lake or riverbed.  Harcourt hastily closed his fist around the stone before Cullen could get a proper look.

The Templar straightened, his face hardening.  “If you’re here to complain that we’re following too close, Rutherford, I need remind you that we are just as eager as you to reach the sanctuary of Haven.  We will not tarry any more than we have.”

Cullen planted his feet and crossed his arms.  His voice was harsh and unyielding when he said, “I don’t want your judgement, Templar.  You have no idea the burden involved with having a Claimed. I’m doing the best I can for Evelyn.”

Harcourt’s expression softened, looking at Cullen with almost pity in his eyes before turning away.  “I know. I once thought the same.”  He was quiet for a time, staring down at his fisted hand.  “It shames me now to admit, but I’ve also Claimed a mage,” he said.  Cullen wanted to name him hypocrite but his tongue was stilled.  The Templar’s voice so heavy and pain-filled that instead of outrage, he felt a pang of sympathy.

After a time, the Knight Commander continued.  “Like you, I thought I was doing what was best.  But I was wrong.  So terribly wrong.  Just,” he choked out.  “Just be careful.  Never forget that Orders, especially those with the most honorable of intentions, have unforeseen consequences – or Evelyn will pay the price.  As my Tamsin did.”  The Templar harshly wiped the tears that were falling across his cheeks.  “Go, Rutherford.  I will speak no more of her.”

It was in a much more somber mood that Cullen returned to the head of the army.  Sula had been right.  Marcus did have a story, one of grief and regret.  It was clear he’d cared for this Tamsin.  Perhaps even held some level of affection for her.  What had happened to this woman?  She was not here with him for there were no Claimed among the Jainen mages.  Was Marcus mourning her loss just as Sula had mourned following Kheilen’s death?  Or had something worse occurred?  He’d spoken of intentions and consequences.  Had her life been so unbearable that she’d killed herself to escape the Claiming?  He hoped that had not been the case.

Regardless of the pity he felt for the Templar, Cullen scoffed.  He didn’t need Marcus’ advice.  Evelyn’s life was anything but unbearable.  In fact, she was thriving, in spite of her enslavement.  He had made certain she had purpose.  That she had some level of happiness and contentment.  That she felt protected and safe.  She was growing into herself and would continue to do so with his help and guidance.  His steps faltered.  But what if …

What if something happened to Evelyn?  What if she were hurt, or worse, because of some inadvertent or ill-considered Order?  It could happen.  It _had_ happened.  Following the bandit attack, he’d panicked and issued an Order – only realizing afterwards that it could have harmed her.  The memory sickened him and he realized he should not so quickly dismiss Marcus’ counsel.  As the Knight-Commander said, Orders did have unintended consequences.  There were a myriad of emotions when Cullen thought of Marcus, most of them negative, but in that moment, he mostly felt sorrow and sympathy for the grief-stricken man and vowed to be more cautious with Evelyn so that he never faced similar regrets.

There was a pleasant surprise waiting for him when he reached his mount.  Evelyn was there, smoothing wrinkles from her tunic.  She ran up to him with none of her usual nervousness and, even better, there was a smile on her lips.  “May I ride with you the rest of the way?

His glum mood lifted.  Evelyn was not only seeking his company but seemed enthused by the prospect of spending time with him.  “I thought you wanted to stay with your patient.”

“Only until the bone set, which it has.”  A worried frown began to replace her grin.  “So, may I? Ride with you, that is?”

He gave a chuckle.  “Of course. Anything you like.”  His spirits lifted even more as he mounted his horse.  Things couldn’t be so terrible between them if she desired to ride with him for the last leg of the journey.  Leaning over so he could lift her onto his lap, he paused.  Once again, without thought, he was making decisions for her.  “Do you want assistance getting up?”

Blinking up at him in surprise, she nodded.  “Yes, please,” she said as she lifted her arms up to him.

Once she was settled, Cullen gave the order for the army to begin their march.  Evelyn couldn’t stop smiling and it was infectious.  He found his lips easily slipping into a grin for he had much to celebrate, in spite of all his faults – of which there were many.  He had left his old life behind, choosing to chart a new course, one of his own making.  Built an army from nothing.  Weathered storm and flood and scorching heat.  Led his men across the span of Thedas.  Broken the chokehold of lyrium.  But, most important, he had managed to build a relationship out of tragedy and suffering with the woman now sitting on his lap.  Of all his accomplishments in the past year, this was the one he was most proud of.  

To think of where they started, the rape, the enslavement, his resentment and brutality, and yet here they were now.  Evelyn seeking his company, preferring to be with him rather than tending her patients.   _Choosing_ him.

“Cullen?”

He looked down, pleased to see her so happy and excited.  “Yes?”

With a growing smile, she said, “Thank you for permitting this.  I didn’t want to have to wait a heartbeat longer than necessary to see the temple where Andraste’s ashes were interred.”

And his good mood shattered.  She hadn’t sought him for his company but rather because riding with him assured her that she would be among the first to arrive in Haven.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, though Evelyn remained exuberant the entire way.  A little more than two bells later, they were approaching the site for Conclave.  There were throngs of cheering crowds to greet Most Holy’s army.  Evelyn wasn’t even aware of the people.  Her reverent eyes instead riveted to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  There was one in the welcoming throngs, though, who was not so pleased to see them.  Under the seething glare of the Lady Seeker Pentaghast, Cullen arrived at Haven’s wooden gates.


End file.
